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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OUR 


HAP  P'Y    HOME; 


FAMILY    CIRCLE 


BY 

MRS.  SARAH  GOULD. 


"  Home  is  the  resort 

Of  love,  of  joy,  of  peace,  and  plenty,  where, 
Supporting  and  supported,  polished  friends 
And  dear  relations  mingle  into  bliss." 


BOSTON- 
BRADLEY,      DAYTON     &     CO., 

20   WASHINGTON    STKEET 


•atered,  according  to  Act  of  Conj?i,.».  in  the  yoar  ISfiG,  by 

MKU1INS    AND    KKAPI.KY 
In  tho  Clerk 'sOffl-«  ofthi-  District  C  t,rtof  the  District  :>f  Jla.ssj«-hiiwt« 


NOTE. 


Our  Happy  Home !  One  of  the  sweet- 
est  words  in  the  English  language,  is 
Home ;  be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  is  al- 
ways connected  with  it  some  of  the  most 
pleasant  associations  of  life. 

"  There  is  no  sweeter  spot  than  home         • 

Upon  this  bleak  and  barren  earth ; 
There  are  no  purer  joys  below 

Than  sparkle  round  the  peaceful  hearth. 
At  home  the  wearied  one  may  rest 

Awhile  from  tasks  of  worldly  strife  ; 
At  home  the  care-worn  soul  may  find 

A  shelter  from  the  storm  of  life." 

With  what  pleasure  does  the  aged  sire, 
upon  whose  brow  is  stamped  the  impress 
of  seventy  winters,  relate  the  scenes  of  his 
youth.  Time  has  not  erased  them  from 
his  memory,  though  he  may  have  forgotten 
the  events  that  occurred  yesterday;  but 


622754 


jv  NOTE. 

tho.se  of  his  childhood  days,  are  indelibly 
fixed  upon  his  mind,  and  cannot  be  oblit- 
erated. He  also  may  have  travelled  into 
foreign  lands  —  roamed  amid  the  "  sunny 
climes  "  of  Spain,  and  Italy,  and  visited  all 
those  remains  of  ancient  grandeur  of  which 
the  Old  World  so  proudly  boasts ;  at  the 
eame  time,  amid  all  those  stupendous 
scenes,  his  mind  will  wander  back  to  his 
native  land,  and  his  strongest  and  most 
ardent  desire  will  continue  to  be,  at  the 
old  mansion  home,  though  it  be  crumbling 
to  the  dust,  by  the  hand  of  time,  and  all 
that  is  near  and  dear  laid  low  in  the  silent 
grave. 

"  O,  carry  me  back  to  my  childhood's  home, 

Where  ocean  surges  roar, 
Where  its  billows  dash  on  a  rock-bound  coast, 

And  mourn  forever  more. 
I'm  pining  away  in  a  stranger's  land, 

Beneath  a  stranger's  eye  ; 
O,  carry  me  home,  O,  carry  me  home, 
O,  carry  me  home  to  die ! " 

8.  G. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

The  Flower  Angels, 1 

The  Little  Star  Gazer, 8 

Benevolence,       .........10 

New  Tippet's  Worth, 16 

Failure  and  Success, 18 

His  First  Cigar, 19 

The  Moss  Eose, 22 

Flowers  of  Spring,     . 24 

Mary,  Ellen,  and  the  Tin  Box, 26 

Billy  Babbit  to  Mary, •  29 

Make  Your  Mark, 30 

The  Honest  Boy, 31 

The  Quarrel, 32 

The  Thistle  Sifter, 35 

A  Puzzle, 35 

Borrowing, 36 

The  Bear  and  the  Children, 40 

The  Eose, 42 

Why  our  Dog's  Teeth  are  White, 43 

Flowers, 48 

The  Clever  Boy,         ........  49 

Only  One  Brick  on  Another, 54 

/The  Advent  of  Hope,        ...,,.  56 

(v) 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Child  and  Sire,    ...  ....  56 

Flowers, 57 

Kind  Hearts  Everywhere,    .  .....    61 

Voice  of  New  England,  .......        62 

Til  be  a  Man, 64 

To  my  Sister, 65 

The  Pledge, 66 

George  and  His  Dog,      ...  ...        67 

The  Fly  with  a  Sore  Toe, 68 

Care, 71 

True  Love 71 

The  Bible, 71 

I  live  to  Learn, 72 

What  the  Pine  Trees  Said, 73 

Home  of  the  Heart,      ........    76 

The  Bible, 78 

Who  made  all  Things  ? 79 

Why  is  the  Rose  most  Beautiful  ? 80 

My  Country, 81 

Property  ;  or,  Yours  and  Mine, 82 

Morning  Hymn, ...     91 

The  Child  at  the  Tomb, 92 

Jesus  our  Example,      ........    94 

Angry  Words, 94 

Promises ...     95 

Nothing  is  Lost, .96 

Fighting  in  Love, 97 

Good  and  Evil, 102 

True  Religion, 102 

The  Spring's  Return,      .        .        .        .        .        .        .103 

My  Home 104 

Home, 105 

War,    ....  .  106 


CONTENTS.  VT1 

The  Little  Garden, Ill 

Thunder  Storm  on  the  Alps, 112 

Cocoa, ,        .        .        .       113 

The  Promises, .  119 

Patience, 119 

Home, 120 

Truth,  — The  Watercress  Man, 121 

The  Youngest,  .  130 

Speak  Kindly  to  the  Poor, 131 

A  Garland  of  Spring  Flowers, 192 

The  Promises, 134 

The  Pleasures  of  Learning, 135 

My  Home, ,139 

The  Good  we  Might  Do, 140 

The  Unsteady  Youth, 141 

The  Spirit's  Whisper, 148 

Susan  Gray, 150 

The  Indian  Maiden's  Farewell, 154 

True  Charity, 155 

Temptations, .        .159 

Avarice  Punished ...       161 

My  Mignonette,  or  Too  Late,     ...  .162 

Little  Things,         ...  .  165 

Ihe  Angel  Visit, 166 

The  Hose-Bell 172 

The  Angel  of  Humanity,    .  .        .        .        .        .173 

Pearls  and  Pebbles,         .        .        .        .        .        .        .177 

Who  is  Happy? 178 

At  Home!   At  Home! 180 

The  Blind  Boy, 181 

Eedeeming  the  Time, 183 

Voice  of  the  Old  Year, 187 

Home,  — A  Mother's  Death 196 


VJiJ  CONTENTS. 

.  200 

Losses,        • 

Christmas  Brilliants, 201 

202 
Honor  Among  Boys, 

The  First  Robin, 205 

The  Robin's  Appeal, 2( 

True  Love 2°7 

Influence ,  •        •        •        •  208 

Worth  of  a  Kiss, 209 

The  Philosophy  of  Rain,  .        .       •>        •        .        •        -212 
Come  Home,  my  Stricken  Daughter,    .  214 

My  Philosophy, 215 

Absence 216 

The  Importance  of  Punctuality, 217 

Angel  Home, 221 

My  Own  Heart's  Home, 222 

The  First  Lie, 224 

A  Gentle  Man 230 

Wiser  than  the  Emperor, 235 

The  Test  of  Friendship, '242 

Little  Things, 243 

To  the  Birds  of  Spring, 244 

Happy  New  Year,         ....  245 


OUR  HAPPY  HOME. 


THE    FLOWER   ANGELS. 

BY  MISS  SEDGWICK. 

"  MOTHER,"  said  Emma  Goodwin,  who  had  been 
reading  Mary  Howitt's  pretty  ballad  called  "  Ma- 
bel on  Midsummer's  Day,"  "  do  you  believe  there 
ever  were  such  people  as  Fairy-folk  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say,  Emma ;  there  are  and  have 
been  strange  things  in  this  world  of  ours." 

"  That  does  not  answer  my  question,  dear 
mother.  I  want  to  know  if  there  were  ever 
really  fairies ;  and  if  there  were,  why  did  they 
Bay  to  little  Mabel, 

"  « The  lady  fern  is  all  unbroke, 

The  strawberry  flower  untak'n ; 
What  shall  be  done  for  her 
Who  still  from  mischief  can  refrain  ? '  M 
1  (1) 


2  THE    FLOWER    ANUELS. 

"Why,  Emma,  they  spoke  like  very  sensible 
little  fairies.  They  commended  Mabel  for  not 
plucking  and  marring  flowers  she  had  been  asked 
not  to  touch. 

"  As  to  the  existence  of  these  fairies,  that,  I  be- 
lieve, is  imaginary  ;  but  I  will  tell  you  a  story  of 
our  own  times. 

"  There  is  a  certain  city  that  you  and  I  know 
so  compactly  built  that  thousands  of  people  in 
it  have  no  ground  to  plant  a  shrub. 

"  The  whole  growing  season  passes  —  the 
spring  time  and  summer ;  all  the  wonderful  pro- 
cesses of  nature  go  on,  —  the  sowing  and  reap- 
ing, the  budding  and  blossoming,  —  and  they 
have  no  sweet  scent  or  lovely  sight  of  flowers. 

"  For  these  poor  people,  thus  deprived  by 
poverty  and  circumstances  of  their  participation 
in  God's  beautiful  creation,  a  public  ground  was 
bought,  planted  with  trees,  shrubs,  and  flowers, 
and  the  public  were  asked  to  respect  what  was 
provided  for  the  public  to  enjoy.  This  public 
ground  was  called  Christian  Square. 

"  It  happened  in  early  summer,  in  June,  the 
'  month  of  flowers,'  that  Fantasy,  a  little  girl 
about  your  age,  was  passing  at  twilight  on  her 


THE   FLOWER,    ANGELS.  3 

way  norne  through  Christian  Square.  Just  with- 
in the  railing  on  the  south  side  there  was  a  bed 
of  lilies  of  the  valley. 

"  The  lily  of  the  valley  seems,  you  know,  to 
have  warmth  of  its  own  in  its  little  heart,  for  it 
does  not  need  sunshine.  The  flowers  were  abun- 
dant. Fantasy  stopped  to  gaze  on  them. 

"  She  knew  well  that  it  was  forbidden  to  touch 
any  thing  within  that  enclosure  ;  but  she  said,  — 

" '  To-morrow  they  will  fade  and  die.  No  one 
will  again  see  them  to-night  ;  surely  I  may  pick 
one  little  bunch  of  them.' 

"And  she  stooped  to  pick  them,  when,  lo !  forth 
from  one  of  the  flower  bells  came  a  tiny  form, 
wrapped  in  a  robe  of  snowy  hue. 

"  '  My  little  lady,'  said  a  silvery  voice,  pluck 
not  my  flowers.' 

" '  And  pray  who  are  you  ? '  asked  Fantasy, 
trembling  more  with  pleasure  than  fear  at  a  sight 
so  strange  and  beautiful. 

" '  I  am  the  lilies'  angel.  I  hang  them  under 
their  green  tent ;  I  drop  the  dews  on  their  sweet 
lips  ;  I  shelter  their  modest  heads  in  shadow  ;  I 
tend  them  from  their  birth  to  their  death.7 

"  '  And  why  may  they  not  as  well  die  on  my 
bosom  as  here  ?  '  asked  Fantasy. 


THE   FLOWER   AJSIGEL3. 

"  The  gentle  spirit  heeded  not  the  pertness  01 
the  little  girl,  but  patiently  replied,  — 

"  '  Because  you  are  but  one,  my  child,  and  here 
they  are  set  for  the  good  of  many.  Here  they 
speak  a  word  of  God's  kind  providence  to  the 
sick  and  old  who  come  tottering  by  ;  to  the  poor 
from  garret  and  cellar  where  no  flowers  live  and 
breathe  ;  to  all  who  have  an  eye  to  see  God  in 
the  beauty  he  has  made.' 

"  The  lilies'  angel  sank  down  and  disappeared 
behind  the  flower  cups,  and  Fantasy  passed  on. 

"  She  next  approached  a  rose,  whose  manifold 
branches  were  clasped  around  a  green  stake.  It 
was  full  of  roses  and  swelling  buds.  Stretching 
out  her  hands,  she  said,  — 

" '  I  will  at  least  have  one  rose ! '  when  a  sharp 
voice  exclaimed,  — 

" '  Hands  off,  little  lady,  or  my  thorns  will 
pierce  you!' 

" '  And  who  are  you  ? '  asked  the  bold  child. 

' '  Behold  me  1 '  said  the  roses'  angel ;  and  with- 
out the  sound  of  even  a  rustled  leaf,  forth  from 
the  dark  centre  of  the  bush  rose  a  form  so 
lovely  that  Fantasy  shouted  with  delight. 

"The  brow,  and  neck,  and  arms  were  white 


THE    FLOWER    ANGELS.  5 

as  the  Rose  Unique,  blended  with  the  faint  tint 
of  the  Maiden's  Blush  ;  the  cheeks  were  of  the 
hue  of  the  Damask  Rose  ;  the  lips  were  of  the 
richest  red  of  the  Chinese  Rose  ;  the  flowing 
curls  of  the  color  of  the  Yellow  Scotch  Rose  ; 
and  around  the  figure  floated  a  cloud  tinged  with 
the  hue  of  every  rose  that  blooms. 

" '  I  love  thee,  little  maiden/  said  the  angel, 
(  for  thou  lovest  flowers,  and  round  such  the  in- 
visible flower  angels  are  ever  floating.  Seek  the 
tokens  of  our  favor  elsewhere.  Here  the  flowers 
are  fo»  all,  not  for  one.  If  thou  dost  respect  us, 
touch  them  not.'  The  rose  angel  vanished. 

"  Fantasy  walked  slowly  on,  and  from  every 
flower  came  forth  its  angel  :  the  Forget-me-not's 
wore  a  zone  of  her  blue  flowers  ;  the  Sweet  Pea's 
a  wreath  of  its  lovely  blossoms  drooping  over  its 
arch,  laughing  eye  ;  and  the  Carnation's  bore  a 
shining  shield  with  its  rich  flower  in  its  centre. 

"  Each  waved  a  hand  to  Fantasy  as  she  passed, 
and  said,  — 

"  'We  are  for  all — not  for  one  little  maiden !' 

"  Fantasy   came   to   a  bed   of   Hear-t's-ease  - 
court  beauties,  dressed  in  royal  velvets !    Old  hab- 
its will  prevail  against  the  best  of  new  lessons. 


G  THE   FLOWER   ANGELS. 

"  Fantasy  stooped  to  pick  'just  one  ; '  when,  lol 
hundreds  of  tiny  fairies,  glowing  with  rainbow 
tints,  rose  from  them,  and  one  spoke,  — 

"  '  After  all,  little  maiden,  that  you  have  been 
permitted  to  see  and  hear  in  your  twilight  pas- 
sage among  us,  if  you  pluck  but  "just  one  "  of 
the  flowers  we  tend  for  all,  you  must  forfeit 
Hearts-ease  forever.' 

" '  I  never  will,'  replied  Fantasy  ;  '  and  here/ 
she  added,  clasping  her  little  hands,  '  I  vow  that 
I  will  never  touch  tree  or  shrub,  flower  or  blade 
of  grass  provided  for  all,  and  not  for  one"?' 

"  A  soft,  musical  murmur  came  forth  from  tree, 
and  shrub,  and  flower.  Fantasy  heard  it.  Such 
harmony  !  it  was  such  as  Nature  always  breathes 
in  the  presence  of  those  who  love  and  serve 
her. 

"  It  is  not  often  permitted  to  mortals  to  hear 
it.  Fantasy  was  buoyed  up  by  it,  as  by  praise 
from  those  we  love. 

"  As  she  emerged  from  the  farther  gate  into 
the  paved  etreet,  she  paused  under  a  tulip  tree. 
It  was  nearly  dead  — hardly  a  leaf  on  its  stately 
branches.  The  summer  before,  it  had  been  full 
of  polished  green  leaves  and  magnificent  flowers. 


THE   FLOWER    ANGELS.  7 

"  '  Why  so  changed  ? '  thought  Fantasy.  She 
heard  a  voice  replying  to  her  thought, — 

"  '  Look  on  the  noble  trunk,  and  see  it  gashed, 
and  nearly  girdled.  Those  wounds  were  made 
in  mean  revenge  by  a  wanton  boy,  who  was 
driven  out  of  Christian  Square  last  year  for 
plucking  the  flowers.  I  am  the  tree's  spirit,  its 
life,  and  by  that  boy's  rude  hand  doomed  to  leave 
it  forever.' 

"And  from  the  gently-stirring  branches  rose, 
to  Fantasy's  eye.  a  cloud,  and  floated  away,  lost 
in  the  dim  atmosphere. 

"  '  Poor  tree  ! '  she  said  ;  '  who  could  have  had 
the  heart  to  kill  that  which  God  and  years  had 
made  so  beautiful  ? '  " 

The  girl  heard  her  mother  to  the  close,  and 
then,  taking  a  long  breath,  she  said, — 

"  What  does  this  mean,  mother  ?  Is  it  not  a 
true  story  ?  " 

"  No,  my  child,  it  is  not.  You  may  call  it  a 
dream,  a  vision,  a  mesmeric  sleep,  any  thing  you 
please,  so  that  you  learn  from  it  to  .respect  and 
keep  your  hands  off  from  whatever  adorns  those 
grounds  provided  at  the  expense  of  the  public 
for  the  public  to  enjoy." 


THE   LITTLE   STAR   GAZER. 


THE   LITTLE   STAR   GAZER. 


I'm  looking  on  the  stars,  mother, 
That  shine  up  there,  all  bright, 

So  like  a  brilliant  string  of  beads 
Around  the  neck  of  Night. 

I  love  to  greet  their  smiles,  mother, 
That  fall  soft  from  the  skies  ; 

They  seem  to  gaze  on  me  in  love 
With  their  sweet  angel  eyes. 

It  seems  to  me  sometimes,  mother, 
That  they  are  windows  bright, 

Through  which  the  happy  spirits  look, 
And  shines  heaven's  holy  light. 

O,  are  they  not  the  gates,  mother, 
Of  radiant  pearl  and  gold, 

By  which  we  enter  heaven  at  last, 
To  rest  in  God's  dear  fold  ? 

They  look  as  if  they  were,  mother, 
Bright  golden  bells  that  ring, 

And  make  accordant  music  tones 
Whene'er  the  angels  sing. 


THE    LITTLE    STAR    GAZER. 

Yon  sky  a  garden  seems,  mother, 

All  full  of  flowery  beds, 
Where  sunbeams  sleep,  and  summer's  breath 

Its  incense  ever  sheds. 

O,  I  could  almost  leave  thee,  mother,  — 

My  happy  home  and  thee,  — 
To  roam  amid  that  starry  field, 

And  in  that  garden  be.  « 

I  would  be  like  a  star,  mother, 

Far  from  the  touch  of  bin, 
And  ever  own  a  heart  that  glows 

All  full  of  light  within. 


When  at  night  I  go  to  sleep 
Fourteen  angels  are  at  hand  :  — 

Two  on  my  right  their  watches  keep 
Two  on  my  left  to  bless  me  stand ; 

Two  hover  gently  o'er  my  head  ; 

Two  guard  the  foot  of  my  small  bed ; 

Two  wake  me  with  the  sun's  first  ray 

Two  dress  me  nicely  every  day ; 

Two  guide  me  on  the  heavenly  road 

That  leads  to  paradise  and  God. 


BENEVOLENCE. 


BENEVOLENCE. 


[SARAH  BUNTIN,  with  a  Bundle  of  Clothes,  WIL- 
LIAM, with  a  Basket  of  Provisions,  going  to  visit 
a  poor  family,  meet  ROBERT  DAWSON,  a  School 
mate.] 

Robert.  Good  morning,  Sarah  and  William  ; 
where  are  you  going  so  early  this  morning? 

Sarah.  We  are  going  over  to  Mrs.  Gently's  to 
carry  some  clothes  and  provisions,  so  that  the 
children  can  go  to  school. 

Robert.  Are  they  so  poor  that  they  cannot  get 
clothes  to  wear  to  school  ? 

Sarah.  Yes,  they  are.  They  have  neither  clothes 
nor  food  to  make  them  comfortable. 

Robert.  Why  don't  they  work  and  earn  money 
wherewith  to  buy  them  clothes  and  food  ? 

Sarah.  They  do,  Robert  ;  and  yet  they  cannot 
earn  enough,  I  fear,  to  keep  them  from  starving  ; 
for  nobody  has  now  any  work  to  give  them. 

Robert.  Have  they  no  father  ? 


BENEVOLENCE.  11 

Sarah.  No,  Robert,  they  have  no  father.  Their 
father  was  blind.  He  died  a  few  weeks  since, 
after  being  blind  many  years. 

Robert.  How  came  he  to  be  blind  ? 

Sarah.  It  is  a  sad  story.  While  he  was  at 
work,  perfecting  an  important  invention  which 
required  great  use  of  the  eyes,  things  began  to 
look  dark  to  him  ;  he  could  not  see  the  fine  lines 
clearly  ;  every  day  it  grew  darker  and  darker  till 
all  became  as  dark  as  night.  Then  the  poor  man 
sat  down  with  his  wife  and  children  and  thought 
over  what  he  should  do. 

Robert.  Well,  what  did  he  do  ? 

Sarah.  He  heard  of  a  great  doctor  in  Philadel- 
phia who  was  famous  for  curing  blindness  ;  so  he 
sold  his  little  farm,  and  cows,  and  sheep,  and  took 
the  money  to  pay  his  expenses  in  moving  his  fam- 
ily to  Philadelphia  and  to  pay  the  doctor. 

Robert.  And  did  the  doctor  help  him  ? 

Sarah.  No  ;  after  trying  the  most  celebrated 
physicians,  and  spending  all  his  money,  he  found 
himself  a  beggar,  and  blind  as  ever. 

Robert.  How  sad  !     What  did  he  then  do  ? 

Sarah.  He  looked  round  for  something  to  do 
for  a  living.  At  last  he  found  a  man  who  em 


12  BENEVOLENCE. 

ployed  him  to  turn  a  grindstone  where  they 
'made  cutlery. 

Robert.  And  could  he  earn  enough  by  turning 
a  grindstone  to  support  his  wife  and  children  ? 

Sarah.  No  ;  his  wife  took  in  washing ;  and 
while  he  had  employment  they  were  able  to  earn 
enough  to  live  from  day  to  day. 

Robert.  What  did  the  children  do  ? 

Sarah.  They  helped  their  mother,  out  of  school 
hours,  except  when  Nancy  was  with  her  father, 
leading  him  to  and  from  his  work.  Every  morn- 
ing she  would  take  him  by  the  hand  and  lead  him 
all  the  way  up  Water  Street  into  Yine  Street, 
where  the  manufactory  was,  and  then  run  home 
and  help  her  mother  till  school.  Then  at  night 
she  would  go  and  lead  her  father  home  again. 

Robert.  Tell  me  more  about  the  blind  man. 
What  became  of  him  ? 

Sarah.  After  a  while  business  oecame  dull,  and 
they  did  not  want  him  at  the  factory  to  turn 
the  grindstone  ;  so  he  and  Nancy  walked  all  over 
the  city  to  find  work  ;  but  nobody  wanted  him  ; 
the^e  was  nothing  which  he  could  do.  So  rather 
than  starve  he  sat  down  on  a  little  stool  by  the 
8ide  of  an  old  graveyard  in  Mulberry  Street,  juet 


1 

BENEVOLENCE.  13 

by  where  Benjamin  Franklin  was  buried,  and 
held  out  his  old  worn-out  cap  for  the  passers  by 
to  throw  in  their  pennies.  There  were  some  who 
would  take  pity  on  the  poor  blind  man  and  give 
him  ?,ome  money.  This  was  not  all.  His  wife, 
by  her  hard  work  and  anxiety,  became  sick  and 
unable  to  take  in  washing  for  a  time.  This  dis- 
heartened the  poor  man  so  that  he  became  sick, 
and  died  of  a  broken  heart. 

Robert.  A  sad  story  indeed.  What  became  of 
the  wife  and  the  children  ? 

Sarah.  They  became  perfectly  destitute,  and 
had  nothing  to  eat,  nor  hardly  any  clothes  to 
wear.  One  evening,  after  they  had  been  with- 
out food  all  day,  Nancy  thought  she  would  go 
down  to  the  Post  Office,  where  she  had  seen 
other  children  sometimes  hold  out  their  hands 
for  gentlemen  to  give  them  pennies,  and  hold 
out  her  hand  ;  perhaps  some  one  would  give  her 
something,  and  then  she  could  buy  some  bread 
for  her  mother  and  little  sister  to  keep  them  from 
starving. 

Robert.  Well,  what  luck  did  she  have  ? 

Sarah.  She  went  and  stood  by  the  door  that 
opens  into  the  Post  Office,  and  tried  to  hold  out 


14  BENEVOLENCE. 

her  hand  as  she  had  seen  other  little  beggars  do, 
At  first  she  could  hardly  get  it  out ;  she  seemed 
to  feel  ashamed  to  do  it.  At  last  a  gentleman 
who  noticed  her,  observing  that  she  was  not  one 
of  the  common  beggars,  spoke  to  her  kindly,  and 
asked  her  who  she  was,  and  where  she  lived,  and 
a  great  many  other  question^,  which  she  answered 
so  honestly  and  frankly  that  he  gave  her  some 
money,  and  afterwards  went  home  with  her  to  see 
her  sick  mother  and  sister. 

Robert.  He  was  a  kind  man.  How  did  he  find 
them. 

Sarah.  He  found  them  in  the  fourth  story  of  a 
poor  old  building  in  Water  Street,  where  they 
lived  in  a  little  attic  room  with  only  one  bed,  one 
table,  a  chair,  and  a  stool  for  their  furniture,  and 
nothing  to  eat.  He  then  gave  them  some  money, 
and  came  home  to  our  house,  where  he  boards, 
and  told  us  all  he  had  seen.  He  then  proposed 
that  we  should  make  a  collection  of  clothes  and 
provisions  for  the  family,  and  send  them.  So 
this  morning  mother  and  I  picked  up  all  our  old 
dresses,  and  made  up  a  basket  of  provisions,  with 
some  money  from  the  boarders,  and  Billy  and  I 
are  going  to  carry  them  to  the  poor  family 


BENEVOLENCE.  15 

Robert.  You  are  very  kind,  Sarah.  I  am  very 
sorry  for  them.  Your  story  and  generosity  have 
interested  me  in  doing  something  for  them  my- 
self. Here  is  a  sixpence  T  was  going  to  spend 
for  marbles.  [Gives  it  to  Sarah.]  I  will  give 
them  'that ;  and  I  should  like  to  go  and  see  them 
with  you.  Can  I  go,? 

Sarah.  Certainly  ;  with  all  my  heart.  It  will 
do  you  good  to  see  those  kind  little  girls  and  pa- 
tient mother  who  have  suffered  so  much  hunger 
and  cold  rather  than  beg.  My  mother  tells  me 
"  it  is  better  to  give  than  to  receive  ; "  that  all 
our  little  actb  of  kindness  to  the  poor  are  treas- 
ures laid  up  in  heaven,  where  neither  moth  nor 
rust  will  corrupt,  nor  thieves  break  through  and 
steal. 

Robert.  I  have  heard  that  before  ;  but  I  never 
understood  it  as  I  do  now.  I  will  try  and  lay  up 
some  treasure  there  too  ;  so  let  us  be  going. 


16  A  NEW  TIPPET'S  WORTH. 

A  NEW  TIPPET'S   WORTH. 

"  I  do  not  want  a  new  tippet  this  winter,  nor 
any  thing  new,  dear  mother,"  said  a  little  girl, 
when  her  mother  began  to  tell  about  buying 
some  new  winter  clothes  ;  "  do,  mother,  let  me 
wear  my  old  ones." 

"  Not  want  a  new  tippet,  when  all  your  cous- 
ins are  to  have  new  ones  ? "  said  the  mother  ; 
"  why,  I  never  saw  a  child  that  did  not  like  new 
things ! " 

"  I  do  not  know  as  I  do,  exactly,"  said  Janette. 

"  And  why  do  you  not  ?  "  asked  her  mother  ; 
"  why  not  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  the  little  girl,  hesitating  a  mo- 
ment, —  "  because  it  makes  me  feel  real  bad  to  be 
dressed  up  so,  when  there  are  so  many  children 
who  have  no  clothes  to  wear,  or  houses  to  live  in, 
or  bread  to  eat. 

"  0  mother !  if  instead  of  buying  me  a  new  tip- 
pet you  would  only  let  me  have  the  money  to  help 
them  with,  then  I  should  be  happy." 

As  the  mother  listened  to  all  her  daughter 
eaid  tears  came  in  her  eyes,  for  she  was  afraid 


A   NEW   TIPPET'S    WORTH.  17 

she  had  thought  more  of  dressing  her  little  girl 
in  fine  clothes  than  of  teaching  her  to  love  oth 
ers,  and  of  finding  her  the  means  of  carrying  out 
her  love.  But  this  had  been  taught  Janette  by 
her  heavenly  Parent,  who  is  called  the  God  of 
love. 

And  what  does  Christian  love  ask  of  you,  and 
me,  and  every  little  child  ?  That  we  must  not 
live  only  to  clothe,  and  feed,  and  improve,  and 
please  ourselves. 

0,  no  ;  for  we  have  a  great  many  brothe^  and 
sisters  in  the  world  who  are  destitute,  and  wicked, 
and  sorrowful ;  and  the  great  God  gives  to  us,  that 
we  may  share  with  them. 

And  now,  as  winter  approaches,  how  many 
children  feel  like  giving  a  beautiful  new  tippet's 
worth  to  help  the  poor?  Perhaps  you  are  not 
able  to  give  as  much  as  that  ;  but  will  you  do 
something  ?  As  the  November  winds  sweep  round 
your  snug  little  chamber  will  you  remember  the 
poor? 

"  And  did  her  mother  give  Janette  the  tippet's 
worth  ?  "  asks  some  little  girl,  perhaps. 

Yes,  she  did.     Janette  wore  her  old  woollen 
tippet,  and  "  the  new  tippet's  worth  "  she  gave 
2 


FAILURE  AND   SUCCESS. 


away  to  do  good  to  others  ;  and  never  was  a 
happier  child  than  she;  for  the  Scripture^says 
"  It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 


PBOVERBS.  — Let  them  laugh  that  win. 
tf  o  great  loss  but  there  is  some  small  gain. 
Never  too  old  to  learn. 


FAILURE  AND   SUCCESS. 

It  is  in  failure,  in  distress, 

When,  reft  of  all,  it  stands  alone, 

And  not  in  what  men  call  success, 
The  noble,  valiant  soul  is  known. 

He  who  perfection  makes  his  aim, 
Shoots  at  a  mark  he  may  not  reach ; 

The  world  may  laugh,  the  world  may  blame, 
And  what  it  calls  discretion  preach. 

Think  not  of  failure  or  success ; 

He  fails  who  has  a  low  desire. 
Up  to  the  highest  ever  press  ; 

Still  onward,  upward,  higher,  higher  I 


HIS   PIEST  CTO.AR.  19 


HIS  FIKST   CIGAR. 

Letter  from  Uncle  Toby  to  Billy  Bruce,  about  Jesse 
Shute  with  his  Lemon  and  first  Cigar. 

MY  DEAR  BILLY  :  Let  me  tell  you  a  story  about 
Jesse  Shute.  I  was  once  standing  on  a  wharf  in 
New  London,  waiting  for  a  boat  to  fire  up,  bound 
to  New  York.  Whilst  there,  my  eye  rested  on  a 
group  of  small  boys,  gathered  round  a  sugar  boi. 

The  most  of  them  were  busy  in  taking  their 
first  steps  in  laying  aside  the  boy  and  putting  on 
the  man.  Some  were  smoking,  some  were  chew- 
ing, and  some  were  doing  their  best  to  perfect 
the  smaller  ones  in  this  fine  art,  or  gentlemanly 
accomplishment !  It  was  on  this  occasion  I  saw 
Jesse  Shute  trying  his  first  cigar. 

He  was  a  thin,  graceful,  elegant  boy,  with  a 
countenance  expressive  of  fine  sensibilities  and  a 
fine  mind  :  in  fact,  he  had  that  rich  and  delicate 
structure  upon  which  tobacco  plays  almost  with 
the  fury  of  lightning  in  doing  mischief. 

The  initiatory  process  went  hard  with  young 
Jesse.  He  had  a  lemon  in  one  hand,  and  a 


20  HIS  FIRST   CIGAR. 

cheroot  in  the  other  ;  and  he  used  them  scien 
tifically,  I  assure  you. 

He  used  them  in  turn.  Now  the  little  fellow 
would  swell,  pout,  puff,  puff,  puff — and  being 
overcome  by  the  precious  fumes,  his  eyes  would 
roll  in  their  sockets,  his  limbs  give  way,  and 
back  he  would  fall  on  the  box,  as  drunk  as  a 
toper  in  the  ditch. 

But  his  remedy  was  at  hand  :  his  lemon  was  an 
antidote  to  sickness.  He  greedily  put  it  to  his 
mouth,  and  drew  upon  it  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
a  young  calf  1  This  neutralized  the  nausea. 

And  being  made  sick  and  well,  drunk  and 
sober,  some  half  dozen  times  by  his  cigar  and 
lemon,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  a 
child  of  peculiar  promise,  bent  on  being  a  genteel 
dandy  quite  early,  or  a  great  smoker,  as  Nimrod 
was  a  great  hunter. 

By  this  time,  I  presume,  little  Jesse  struts  and 
shows  off  in  full  bloom  ;  is  quite  a  connoisseur  in 
the  cigar  science  ;  talks  about  good,  better,  best, 
of  a  hundred  varieties  or  more. 

I  dare  say  he  wags  his  head  according  to  rule, 
perfumes  the  streets  and  saloons  of  New  London 
with  what  Horace  Greeley  calls  a  profane  stench ; 


HIS   7IRST    CIGAR.  21 

and  though  he  was  a  mere  boy  then,  I  presume 
were  I  to  call  him  a  boy  now,  he  would  say,  as 
another  little  fellow  once  said  when  I  asked  him 
to  step  aside  and  let  me  pass,  "  Sir,  don't  call 
me  a  boy  ;  I  have  used  cigars  these  three  years ! " 

I  must  not  fatigue  you,  Billy  ;  but,  rely  upon  it, 
to  use  tobacco  is  no  more  natural  than  to  swal- 
low lightning,  inhale  assafoetida,  or  live  on  fire. 
Hence  you  must  never  use  it.  You  are  well 
now  ;  and  neither  this  nor  any  other  narcotic 
can  make  you  better. 

If  chewers,  smokers,  or  venders  entice  thee,  do 
not  consent.  Say  to  them  as  Omiah,  a  youth 
from  Otaheite,  said  to  a  great  Englishman  who 
offered  him  his  snuff  box :  "  I  thank  you,  my 
lord,  my  nose  is  not  hungry ! " 

That  is  exactly  the  thing  —  Omiah's  nose  was 
not  hungry !  Neither  is  yours  nor  mine  in  snuff- 
ing such  fragrance.  And  if  our  American  lads 
had  the  independence  of  this  young  pagan,  so 
many  of  them  would  not  become  sickly  dupes  to 
this  artificial  appetite  ;  but  living  in  harmony 
with  their  real  nature,  in  harmony  with  the  voice 
of  God  within  and  around,  — 

"  They  would  at  once  draw  the  sting  of  life  and  death, 
And  walk  with  Nature ;  and  her  paths  are  peace." 


22  THE   MOSS   ROSE. 

THE   MOSS  ROSE. 

• 

Have  you  ever  imagined,  when  you  stood  be- 
side the  sweet  rose  and  admired  its  beauty  and 
inhaled  its  fragrance,  that  it  was  talking  all  the 
while  ?  Listen  to  a  conversation  which  the  pious 
Krummacher  once  thought  he  heard  as  he  stood 
admiring  the  moss  rose  and  the  simple  dress  with 
which  the  hand  of  nature,  or  rather  the  hand  of 
nature's  God,  has  clothed  it.  Here  it  is  :  — 

"  The  angel  who  takes  care  of  the  flowers,  and 
sprinkles  upon  them  the  dew  in  the  still  night, 
slumbered,  on  a  spring  day,  in  the  shade  of  a 
rosebush. 

"  And  when  he  awoke,  he  said,  with  a  smiling 
countenance,  'Most  beautiful  of  my  children,  I 
thank  thee  for  thy  refreshing  odor  and  cooling 
shade.  Could  you  now  ask  any  favor,  how  will- 
ingly would  I  grant  it ! ' 

" '  Adorn  me,  then,  with  a  new  charm/  said  the 
spirit  of  the  rosebush,  in  a  beseeching  tone. 

"  And  the  angel  adorned  the  loveliest  of  flow- 
ers with  simple  moss.  Sweetly  it  stood  there  in 
modest  attire,  —  the  moss  rose,  —  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  its  kind." 


THE  MOSS  ROSE.  23 

And  the  good  man  who  wrote  this  adds,  "  Lay 
aside  the  splendid  ornament  and  the  glittering 
jewel,  and  listen  to  the  instructions  of  maternal 
nature." 

"Whenever,  therefore,  you  feel  inclined  to  envy 
those  who  wear  costly  ornaments  —  the  ring  of 
diamonds  or  the  necklace  of  pearls  —  think  of 
the  moss  rose,  and  the  lesson  of  wisdom  which  it 
teaches  ;  and  remember  that  there  is  no  fine  gold 
equal  to  "  the  ornament  of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit, 
which  is,  in  the  sight  of  God,  of  great  price." 


24  FLOWERS   OE  SPRING. 


FLOWERS  OF  SPRING. 

The  violets  are  coming, 

In  the  valley  —  on  the  plain ; 
And  the  bees  will  soon  be  humming, 

And  the  streams  be  free  again. 
There  are  pretty  budding  faces 

In  the  dell,  so  pure  and  sweet, 
And  a  thousand  tiny  traces 

Of  their  little  blue-veined  feet. 

The  violets  are  coming, 

Their  buds  are  scarcely  seen ; 
But  heaven  wears  a  deeper  blue, 

And  earth  a  brighter  green. 
The  leaves  are  all  unclosing, 

Our  hearts  grow  full  and  strong, 
For  we  hail  them  as  a  prelude 

Vo  a  long  bright  summer  song. 

The  violets-  are  coming, 

There's  a  perfume  on  the  air ; 
And  the  breath  of  early  blossoms 

Uprising  everywhere. 
Oh,  I  love  the  summer  flowers, 

Each  tiny,  bright-lipped  thing ; 
But  more  than  them,  I  dearly  love 

The  first  sweet  buds  of  spring. 

MBS.  H.  MAKION  STEPHEN*. 


MAEY,   ELLEN,   AND  THE   TIN  BOX.  25 


MARY,  ELLEN,  AND  THE   TIN  BOX. 

In  my  visit  to  one  of  the  Boston  schools,  a 
child  asked  me, — 

"What  does  this  mean, — 'It  is  more  blessed  to 
give  than  to  receive  '  ?  " 

"  Children,"  I  asked,  "  can  any  of  you  tell  what 
it  means  ?  " 

A  little  girl,  whose  name  was  Mary,  an- 
swered, — 

"  I  had  a  piece  of  cake  the  other  day.  1  broke 
it  into  six  pieces,  and  gave  five  of  them  to  five 
other  children  who  were  playing  with  me,  and 
kept  the  smallest  myself." 

"  Is  not  that  what  it  means  ?  "  asked  another 
girl,  named  Ellen. 

"  Yes,  Ellen,"  I  replied,  "  I  think  it  is  pretty 
near  the  meaning.  I  know  a  boy  named  Clark. 
He  has  several  brothers  and  sisters.  If  Clark 
gets  an  apple,  an  orange,  grapes,  plums,  or  any 
thing,  his  brothers  and  sisters  are  always  sure  to 
get  the  largest  share,  and  often  the  whole. 

"  When  they  have  8tiy  thing,  Clark  never  teases 
them  to  give  any  to  him  ;  but  they  often  plead 


26  MARY,  ELLEN,  AND  THE  TIN  BOX. 

earnestly  with  him  to  take  some.  When  he  sees 
he  cannot  refuse  Without  hurting  their  feelings  he 
always  takes  what  they  offer.  I  once  asked  Clark 
why  he  was  not  as  willing  to  receive  from  his 
brothers  and  sisters  as  he  was  to  give  to  them. 

"  '  Because/  said  the  noble  boy,  '  I  feel  better 
pleased  when  I  give  to  them  than  I  do  when  they 
give  to  me.' 

" '  Why  ? '  I  asked. 

"  '  Because  I  am  afraid  they  will  not  have 
enough/  said  he. 

" '  What  if  they  should  not  ?  '  I  asked. 

" '  Why/  said  he, '  how  could  I  enjoy  any  thing 
when  I  would  be  thinking  all  the  time  that  they 
wanted  it,  and  that  they  had  deprived  themselves 
of  it  to  give  it  to  me  ? ' 

" '  True,  Clark,  I  do  not  know  how  you  could/ 
I  answered." 

After  I  had  related  this  story,  Mary  said,  "  I 
think  I  should  be  more  happy  to  give  than  to 
receive."  Poor  girl !  she  did  not  know  her  own 
heart ;  but  it  was  soon  brought  to  the  test. 

Ellen  took  up  a  painted  tin  box  belonging  to 
Mary,  and  looked  at  it.  • 

"  That  is  mine,"  said  Mary,  and  snatched  it 
away  with  some  violence. 


MABY,   ELLEN,    AND   THE  TIN  BOX.  27 

Ellen  gave  it  up  very  quietly,  and  then  said, 
"  Do  let  me  look  at  it,  Mary.  It  is  so  pretty !  " 

"  I  shall  not,"  said  Mary,  "  for  it  is  mine  ;  and 
you  had  no  business  to  touch  it." 

"  Dear  Mary,"  said  I,  "  do  you  really  think  it  is 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive  ?  You  said 
just  now  you  thought  you  should  be  more  happy 
to  give  than  to  receive.  You  do  not  look  very 
happy  now." 

Poor  girl !  she  was  cut  to  the  heart.  She  in- 
stantly gave  the  box  to  Ellen,  hung  her  head, 
and  began  to  weep. 

"  Children,"  said  I  to  the  scholars,  "  which  do 
you  think  would  have  made  Mary  more  happy  — 
to  have  allowed  Ellen  to  look  at  the  box  as  much 
as  she  pleased,  or  to  have  snatched  it  away  as  she 
did  ?  " 

All  answered,  "  She  would  have  been  moife 
happy  if  she  had  allowed  her  to  look  at  it." 

"  So  I  think,"  I  replied.  "  You  do  not  feel  so 
happy,  Mary,  as  you  would  have  done  if  you  had 
told  Ellen  kindly,  when,  she  took  up  your  box, 
that  she  might  look  at  it  as  much  as  she  pleased." 

"  If  we  feel  as  we  ought  to  feel,"  I  remarked 
to  the  children,  "we  shall  give  up  our  lives  to 


28  ANECDOTE. 

save  the  lives  of  others  rather  than  take  away 
their  lives  to  save  our  own." 

"  If  they  are  our  enemies,  and  are  trying  to  kill 
us,"  asked  Sarah,  "  should  we  feel  happier  to  give 
up  our  lives  rather  than  take  theirs  ?  " 

"If  we  really  feel  that  it  is  more  blessed  to 
give  than  to  receive,"  I  replied,  "  I  think  we 
should  suffer  and  die  for  the  good  even  of  our 
enemies  rather  than  make  them  suffer  and  die  for 
our  good.  If  we  practise  this  precept,  as  Jesus 
did,  it  will  prevent  all  wars,  and  settle  all  diffi- 
culties, without  any  violence."  —  Jl  Kiss  for  a 
Blew. 


BILLY   BABBIT   TO   MARY.  29 


BILLY   RABBIT   TO    MARY. 


[Billy  Rabbit  was  a  little  rabbit  which  a  boj  caught  in  the 
woods  and  gave  to  a  little  girl  of  the  name  of  Mary.  She 
was  very  attentive  to  the  little  prisoner,  gave  him  an  abun- 
dance of  good  things  to  eat,  and  tried  her  best  to  make  him 
happy  ;  but  all  in  vain.  After  many  attempts,  he  at  last  suc- 
ceeded in  making  his  escape,  and  iastantly  disappeared  in  tht 
woods.  In  the  course  of  the  day  *he  iolio  wing  letter,  sealed 
with  a  sharp  thorn,  was  xer-ttYeu  by  nits  friend  Mary.] 


ARTICHOKE  WOODS. 

You  thought,  my  dfar  Mary,  you  had  Billy  fast, 
But  I  tried  very  hard,  and  escaped  you  at  last  ; 
The  chance  was  so  tempting  I  thought  I  would  'nab  it, 
It  was  not  very  nauphty,  I'm  sure,  in  a  rabbit. 
O,  let  not  your  kind  heart  be  angry  with  me, 
But  think  what  a  joy  it  is  to  be  free  ; 
To  see  the  green  woods,  to  feel  the  fresh  air, 
To  skip,  and  to  play,  and  to  run  every  where. 
The  food  that  you  gave  me  was  pleasant  and  sweet, 
But  I'd  rather  be  free,  though  with  nothing  to  eat. 

O,  how  glad  they  all  were  to  see  me  come  back  ! 
And  every  one  wanted  to  give  me  a  smack. 
Dick  knocked  over  Brownie,  and  jumped  over  Bun, 
And  the  neighbors  came  in  to  witness  the  fun. 
My  father  said  something,  but  could  not  be  heard  ; 
My  mother  looked  at  me,  but  spoke  not  a  word  ; 


30  MAKE  YOUR  MARK. 

And  while  she  was  looking  her  eyes  became  pink, 
And  she  shed  a  few  tears,  I  verily  think. 

To  him  who  a  hole  or  a  palace  inhabits, 

To  all  sorts  of  beings,  to  men,  and  to  rabbits  ; 

Ah  !  dear  to  us  all  is  sweet  Liberty, 

Especially,  Mary,  to  you  and  to  me. 

So  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me  for  sending  this  letter 

To  tell  you  I'm  safe,  and  feel  so  much  better, 

Cut  all  sorts  of  capers,  and  act  very  silly, 

And  am  your  devoted,  affectionate 

BILLY, 


MAKE   YOUR  MARK. 

In  the  quarries  should  you  toil, 

Make  your  mark ; 
Do  you  delve  upon  the  soil  ? 

Make  your  mark ; 
In  whatever  path  you  go, 

In  whatever  place  you  stand,  — 
Moving  swift,  or  moving  slow,  — 
With  a  firm  and  honest  hand 
Make  your  mark. 

Life  is  fleeting  as  a  shade  — 

Make  your  mark ; 
Marks  of  some  kind  must  be  made 

Make  your  mark ; 


THE   HONEST    BOY.  31 

Make  it  while  the  arm  IB  strong, 

In  the  golden  hours  of  youth  ; 
Never,  never  make  it  wrong ; 

Make  it  with  the  stamp  of  truth — 
Make  your  mark. 


THE  HONEST  BOY. 

Once  there  was  a  little  boy 

With  curly  hair  and  pleasant  eye  — 
A  boy  who  always  told  the  truth, 

And  never,  never  told  a  lie. 

And  when  he  trotted  off  to  school, 
The  children  all  about  would  cry, 

"  There  goes  the  curly-headed  boy  — 
The  boy  that  never  tells  a  lie." 

And  every  body  loved  him  so, 
Because  he  always  told  the  truth, 

That  every  day,  as  he  grew  up, 
'Twas  said,  "  There  goes  the  honest  joutfr 

And  when  the  people  that  stood  near 
Would  turn  to  ask  the  reason  why, 

The  answer  would  be  always  this : 
"  Because  he  never  tells  a  lie." 


82  THE  QUARREL. 

THE  QUARREL. 

[The  Father  and  his  two  Sons,  JULIAN  and  ALONZO.] 

Julian.  Father,  Alonzo  struck  me. 

Fattier.  Well,  my  son,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it  ?  You  can  do  all  that  ought  to  be 
done  to  him. 

Julian.  But,  father,  you  have  often  told  me  I 
must  love  him,  and  never  strike  him,  even  if  he 
strikes  me. 

Father.  Is  it  because  you  love  your  brother,  my 
son,  that  you  did  not  strike  him  when  he  struck 
you? 

Julian.  Yes,  father.     [Faintly.} 

Father.  Well,  my  son,  I  am  glad  you  did  not 
strike  him,  but  rather  came  to  me  with  your  com- 
plaint. What  do  you  want  me  to  do  to  him  ? 

Julian.  Why,  father,  I  thought  you  would  wish 
to  punish  him  if  he  struck  me. 

Father.  Do  you  wish  me  to  whip  your  brother  ? 

Julian.  Why,  father,  you  always  tell  us  that 
you  will  help  us  to  settle  our  disputes  if  we  will 
come  to  you. 


THE  QUARREL.  33 

Father.  So  you  would  be  glad  to  see  him 
whipped,  would  you,  Julian  ?  [Julian  hangs  down 
his  kead,  and  makes  no  answer .]  Alonzo,  my  dear, 
come  here.  \_Jllonzo  goes  to  his  father.}  Alonzo, 
Julian  says  you  struck  him,  and  he  seems  to  wish 
me  to  whip  you. 

Alonzo.  Julian  kicked  me,  father,  before  I 
struck  him. 

Father.  That  alters  the  case  :  Julian  did  not 
tell  me  that  he  had  done  you  any  injury. 

Alonzo.  I  should  not  have  struck  him  if  he  had 
not  kicked  me. 

FatJier.  Who  ever  saw  the  like  of  this  ?  Here 
are  two  brothers,  each  trying  to  enlist  their  father 
in  a  quarrel  against  the  other.  How  often  have 
I  said  to  you,  children,  Love  each  other,  and 
never  fight !  and  now  each  of  you  wishes  me  to 
punish  the  other.  Alonzo,  do  you  wish  me  to 
punish  your  brother? 

Jilonzo.  [Looking  at  Jidian.\  No,  father  ;  [  do 
not  wish  to  have  him  punished. 

Father.  But  Julian  wishes  me  to  whip  you, 
Alonzo 

Jilonzo.  No  matter :  I  do  not  wish  to  have  my 
brother  whipped. 

3 


34  THE  QUARREL. 

Father.  What !  not  if  lie  wishes  to  have  you 
whipped  ? 

Jllonzo.  No,  father.  [JJlonzo  comes  near,  and 
takes  hold  of  Julian's  hand.] 

Father.  Well,  Julian,  do  you  still  wish  me  to 
whip  your  brother? 

Julian.  No,  father  ;  [In  a  subdued  tone  of  voice.] 
I  do  not  wish  iny  little  brother  to  be  punished. 

Father.  Julian,  my  son,  how  is  this  ?  Just  now 
you  seemed  to  wish  me  to  take  sides  with  you 
against  your  brother,  and  to  help  you  to  pun- 
ish him. 

Julian.  That  was  when  I  was  angry  with  him  ; 
I  do  not  want  you  to  punish  him  now.  I  would 
rather  you  should  whip  me. 

Father.  The  next  time,  then,  that  your  brother 
hurts  you  in  any  way,  wait  till  your  anger  is  all 
gone,  and  till  you  can  put  your  arm  round  him, 
and  love  him,  as  you  now  do,  before  you  come  to 
ask  me  to  help  you  to  punish  him.  Never  strike 
him  yourself,  nor  kick  him,  whatever  he  does  to 
you,  till  you  can  fold  him  in  your  arms,  and  love 
him  as  you  do  at  this  moment. 

Julian.  Why,  father,  then  I  should  never  strike 
him  at  all,  nor  tell  you  if  he  struck  me. 


THE   QUARREL.  35 

Father.  All  the  better  :  then  you  would  never 
get  into  a  quarrel.  When  others  strike  you, 
never  strike  them  in  return  ;  but  pray,  to  our 
heavenly  Father  that  he  would  enable  you  to  "  So 
good  for  evil,  to  bless  them  that  curse  you,  and 
to  pray  for  them  which  despitefully  use  you." 


THE  THISTLE  SIFTER.  —  Theophilus  Thistle,  the 
successful  thistle  sifter,  in  sifting  a  sieve  full  of 
unsifted  thistles,  thrust  three  thousand  thistles 
through  the  thick  of  his  thumb  ;  see  that  thou,  in 
siftiiig  a  sieve  full  of  unsifted  thistles,  dost  not 
thrust  three  thousand  thistles  through  the  thick 
of  thy  thumb  :  success  to  the  successful  thistle 
sifter,  who  doth  not  get  the  thistles  in  his  tongue. 


36  BORROWING. 


BORROWING. 

"  Borrow  seldom,  and  return  punctually.  Be  careful  in  no 
way  to  injure  the  property  you  borrow."  —  Morals  of  Manners. 

Christine  Alton,  a  girl  thirteen  years  old,  re- 
ceived a  note  from  one  of  her  friends,  saying,  — 

"The  long-expected  box  has  come  from  Canton  : 
come  down  and  drink  tea  with  me,  and,  Christine, 
as  they  say  in  the  advertisements,  '  you  will  hear 
something  to  your  advantage.'  " 

Christine  was  dressed,  and  ready  to  go,  when 
her  mother  said,  — 

"  It  is  beginning  to  rain,  my  child  ;  you  must 
take  an  umbrella." 

Christine  looked  for  one  in  the  umbrella  stand  ; 
there  was  no  umbrella  there. 

"Where  is  my  father's  silk  umbrella?"  she 
said.  Mr.  Hicks  had  borrowed  it  a  few  evenings 
before,  but  had  not  sent  it  home. 

"  But  where,"  asked  her  mother,  "  is  the  little 
cotton  one  which  I  bought  on  purpose  for  you  ?  " 

"  0,  that  I  lent  to  Ellen  Hicks,  and  she  has  not 
returned  it." 


BORROWING.  37 

"  Ask  Philanda  (the  cook)  to  lend  you  hers." 

"Mother,  she  says  she  lent  it  last  week  to 
cousin  Henry,  and  he  has  not  returned  it.  I  will 
just  run  into  Anne's,  and  borrow  hers." 

Anne  Lincoln,  her  cousin,  lived  next  door,  and 
in  one  moment  more  Christine  was  in  Mrs.  Lin- 
coln's parlor,  and  asking  Anne  to  be  kind  enough 
to  lend  her  her  umbrella. 

"I  don't  know  exactly  where  it  is,"  replied 
Anne,  coldly. 

Anne's  mother  was  struck  with  her  manner, 
and  looking  up  from  her  work,  she  said,  — 

"  Go  and  find  it,  Anne." 

Anne  winked  at  her  mother,  but  her  mother 
was  determined  not  to  understand  her  winks. 

"  If  you  are  not  willing  to  lend  your  umbrella, 
say  so,  my  child  ;  but  don't  make  a  pretext  of  not 
knowing  where  it  is." 

"  Well,  then,  I  am  not  willing,"  said  Anne. 

Christine  was  a  girl  of  quick  feelings.  She 
said  nothing,  but  instantly  left  the  house. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Anne,"  said  her 
mother,  "  by  your  unwillingness  ?  Christine  and 
all  her  family  are  always  ready  to  lend  any  thing 
they  possess." 


38  BORROWING. 

"  I  know  it,  mother  ;  and  to  borrow  any  thing 
that  any  body  else  possesses.  Christine  has  bor- 
rowed three  books  of  me  that  she  has  never  re- 
turned ;  and  my  '  Poetry  for  Schools '  was  ruined 
there.  And  last  week  she  borrowed  my  rubbers, 
and  forgot  where  she  left  them." 

"This  is  very  inconvenient  and  disagreeable, 
my  dear  Anne  ;  still  I  think  if  you  were  even  now 
to  lend  Christine  your  umbrella,  and  to  tell  her 
frankly  your  reasons  for  having  withheld  it,  it 
might  make  her  more  careful  in  future. 

"If  we  were  more  patient  with  the  faults  of 
others,  and  took  some  little  pains  to  mend  them, 
the  world  would  get  on  better  than  it  does." 

Anne  sat  for  a  moment.  The  advice  worked 
well.  She  kissed  her  mother,  saying, — 

"  You  speak  so  gently,  mother,  I  can't  help  do- 
ing what  you  wish." 

She  found  her  umbrella  without  much  difficulty, 
and  felt  the  pleasure  of  doing  a  kindness  as  she 
sprang  up  Mrs.  Alton's  steps.  She  found  Chris- 
tine alone  in  the  parlor,  looking  very  disconso- 
late. Her  new  silk  bonnet  was  untied,  and  lying 
beside  her,  and  the  tears  were  streaming  from 
her  eyes. 


BORROWING.  39 

"  Now,  Christine,"  said  Anne,  "  I  am  glad  to 
find  you  alone,  because  I  want  to  tell  you  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself;  and  that  we  don't  like  to  say 
before  more  than  one  person  at  a  time,  you 
know." 

Christine,  the  best-humored  of  girls,  wiped  off 
her  tears  and  smiled. 

"  Here,  dear  Christine,"  continued  Anne,  "  is 
the  umbrella  for  you ;  and  if  you  will  be  sure 
and  return  it  as  soon  as  you  come  home,  I  will 
never  be  so  disagreeable  again. 

"  And,  dear  Christine,  let  me  tell  you  why  I 
was  so  ;  and  if  you  cure  me  of  my  fault,  why, 
perhaps  I  may  cure  you  of  yours  ;  and  then  we 
shall  love  one  another  the  better  all  our  lives." 

And  Anne  courageously,  and  very  pleasantly, 
detailed  the  causes  of  vexation  she  had  had. 

Christine  candidly  confessed  her  fault,  and 
from  that  moment  began  a  reform  which  made 
her  a  comfortable  as  well  as  a  charming  friend. 


40      THE  BEAR  AND  THE  CHILDREN. 

THE  BEAR  AND  THE  CHILDREN. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

I  will  tell  you  a  circumstance  which  occurred 
a  year  ago  in  a  country  town  in  the  south  of 
Germany. 

The  master  of  a  dancing  bear  was  sitting  in 
the  tap  room  of  an  inn,  eating  his  supper,  whilst 
the  bear,  poor  harmless  beast,  was  tied  up  behind 
the  wood  stack  in  the  yard. 

In  the  room  up  stairs  three  little  children  were 
playing  about.  Tramp ! .  tramp !  was  suddenly 
heard  on  the  stairs.  Who  could  it  be  ?  The 
door  flew  open,  and  enter  —  the  bear  ;  the  huge, 
shaggy  beast  with  his  clanking  chain  !  Tired  of 
standing  so  long  in  the  yard  alone,  Bruin  had  at 
length  found  his  way  to  the  staircase. 

At  first  the  little  children  were  in  a  terrible 
fright  at  this  unexpected  visit,  and  each  ran  into 
a  corner  to  hide  himself;  but  the  bear  found 
them  all  out,  and  put  his  muzzle,  snuffling,  up  to 
them,  but  did  not  harm  them  in  the  least. 

"  He  must  be  a  big  dog,"  thought  the  children  • 


THE   BEAE   AND  THE   CHILDEEN.  41 

and  they  began  to  stroke  him  familiarly.  The 
bear  stretched  himself  out  at  his .  full  length 
upon  the  floor,  and  the  youngest  boy  rolled  over 
him,  and  nestled  his  curly  head  in  the  shaggy, 
black  fur  of  the  beast. 

Then  the  eldest  boy  went  and  fetched  his 
drum,  and  thumped  away  on  it  with  might  and 
main  ;  whereupon  the  bear  stood  erect  upon  his 
hind  "legs  and  began  to  dance.  What  glorious 
fun! 

Each  boy  shouldered  his  musket ;  the  bear 
must  of  course  have  one  too ;  and  he  held  it  tight 
and  firm,  like  any  soldier.  There's  a  comrade  for 
you,  my  lads  !  and  away  they  marched  —  one,  two 
—  one,  two ! 

The  door  suddenly  opened,  and  the  children's 
mother  entered.  You  should  have  seen  her  — 
speechless  with  terror,  her  cheeks  white  as  a 
sheet,  and  her  eyes  fixed  with  horror.  But  the 
youngest  boy  nodded,  with  a  look  of  intense  de- 
light, and  cried,  — 

"  Mamma,  mamma,  we  are  only  playing  at  sol- 
diers ! " 

At  that 'moment  the  master  of  the  bear  made 
his  appearance. 


42  THE  ROSE. 

THE   ROSE. 

* 

FROM   THE   GERMAN. 

There  was  once  a  poor  woman  who  had  two 
children.  The  youngest  had  to  go  every  day  to 
the  forest  to  fetch  wood.  And  once,  when  the 
little  girl  had  strayed  very  far,  and  lost  her  way, 
there  came  a  little  child,  who  helped  her  to  pick 
up  the  wood,  and  drag  the  bundle  home  ;  and 
when  they  came  near  the  house,  the  little  child 
suddenly  vanished. 

The  maiden  told  her  mother  all  that  had 
passed ;  but  she  would  not  believe  it.  At  length 
the  little  girl  brought  home  a  rose,  and  said 
that  the  beautiful  child  had  given  it  her,  and 
had  told  her  that  when  its  leaves  unfolded  he 
would  come  again  :  so  the  mother  put  the  rose 
into  water. 

One  morning  the  little  girl  did  not  get  up  as 
usual.  The  mother  went  to  the  bed ;  the  child 
was  dead  ;  but  it  lay  there  with  a  calm  and 
lovely  smile.  And  that  very  morning  the  leaves 
of  the  rose  unfolded. 


WHY   OUR   DOG'S   TEETH   ARE   WHITE.  43 


WHY  OUR  DOG'S  TEETH^ARE  WHITE. 

Mr.  W.  There  are  a  great  many  curious  things 
about  the  animals  which  we  see  every  day,  and 
yet  do  not  notice  particularly.  What  are  you 
doing  with  Ponto,  Tom  ? 

Tom.  Pray,  father,  look  at  Ponto,  whom  you 
took  with  you  when  you  went  shooting  yesterday. 
Ponto  is  a  fine  pointer.  I  like  to  go  with  you 
when  you  take  him  along.  It  is  so  curious  to  see 
him  stop  short,  when  he  comes  upon  a  covey  of 
partridges,  and  point  straight  at  them  with  his 
nose !  He  must  be  a  very  intelligent  dog,  and 
very  well  trained,  too,  to  do  it  so  nicely  as  he 
does.  I  love  to  observe  all  his  motions.  Will 
you  tell  us,  this  morning,  why  his  teeth  are  so 
white  and  clean  ? 

Mr.  W.  My  dear  boy,  this  important  secret  lies 
in  a  nutshell.  Ponto  sets  a  very  high  value  upon 
his  teeth,  and  little  boys  and  girls  set  none  what- 
ever upon  theirs.  Ponto  never  goes  into  a  black- 
smith's shop  to  gnaw  the  files  ;  nor  did  I  ever 
detect  him  in  the  act  of  chewing  small  pieces  of 
steel  or  iron.  He  thereby  keeps  his  teeth  sound 
and  good  until  he  arrives  at  a  good  old  age. 


44         WHY   OUR  DOO'S   TKLTU   ARE   WHITE. 

Amelia.  But  we  do  not  eat  hon,  nor  chew  files. 

Mr.  W.  Certainly  not ;  but  you  file  off  the 
enamel,  or  outside,  with  sugar  and  sweetmeats, 
and  you  break  them  with  cracking  nuts  and  plum 
stones  ;  so  that  they  decay,  and  are  as  useless  as 
if  you  did  both.  How  is  that,  my  masters  and 
mistresses  ? 

Kenneth.  Because  our  teeth  are  not  dogs'  teeth. 

Mr.  W.  They  are  just  like  dogs'  teeth.  We 
have  teeth  to  bite  our  food,  teeth  to  tear  it,  and 
teeth  to  grind  it.  Pray  what  has  Ponto  more  ? 
He  has  "all  his  now,  and  a  beautiful  set  they  are. 
I  will  not  say  any  thing  about  the  color  of  yours, 
my  children,  because  I  hope  to  see  them,  after  to- 
day, pearly  white.  But  alas !  some  of  you  have 
decayed  teeth,  which  can  never  be  remedied. 

Kenneth.  0,  do  tell  us  how  Ponto  managed  his 
teeth. 

Mr.  W.  When  Ponto  was  a  baby-dog  he  lived 
wholly  on  milk  ;  and  when  his  teeth  were  strong 
enough  he  began  to  pick  a  bone  for  himself.  If 
his  mother  had  then  cut  his  meat  with  a  knife, 
and  fed  him  with  a  fork,  his  front  teeth,  for  want 
of  something  to  do,  would  have  become  tender 
and  loose.  The  first  bone  he  picked,  one  tooth 


WHY   OUE   DOG'S   TEETH   ARE   WHITE.  45 

would  drop  out,  all  the  others  would  give  way  a 
bit,  the  food  would  then  get  fixed  between  them, 
and  they  would  decay  and  ache,  like  children's. 

Tom.  I  do  not  see  how  feeding  him  with  a 
knife  and  fork  should  loosen  his  teeth. 

Mr.  W.  But  I  do.  Just  remember  :  both  your 
teeth  and  his  are  broad  behind,  and  sharp  and 
narrow  in  front.  If  all  your  food  or  his  is  cut, 
and  put  into  your  mouth,  the  broad,  back  teeth 
grind  it,  but  the  front  ones  have  nothing  to  do. 

Tom.  I  should,  therefore,  think  they  would  not 
wear  out  so  soon  as  the  back  ones. 

Mr.  W.  My  dear  Tom,  if  I  could  make  your 
right  or  strongest  arm  an  idle  gentleman's,  hav- 
ing nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  about  and  swing  a 
cane,  and  your  left  or  weakest  arm  a  blacksmith's, 
what  should  we  see  ? 

Ella.  Why,  one  would  be  white,  and  the  other 
black. 

Mr.  W.  Very  true,  ^r'  •-  Pert;  but  the  left  or 
weaker  arm  would  nu  i  umy  be  able  to  lift  greater 
weights,  and  strike  harder  blows,  bitf  it  would  be 
larger,  and  harder,  and  stronger.  Now,  this  is 
just  the  case  with  the  teeth.  If  the  front  teeth 
have  nothing  to  do,  they  become  discolored 


46         WHY  OUK  DOG'S   TEETH  ARE   WHITE. 

and  loose,  and  the  gums  grow  spongy  and  un- 
healthy. 

Amelia.  Then  the  reason  why  Ponto's  teeth  are 
so  white  and  good  is  because  he  uses  all  his  teeth 
—  front  as  well  as  back  ? 
Mr.  W.  Precisely  so. 
Ella.  But  why  are  they  white  ? 
Mr.  W.  Because  every  mouthful  of  food  torn  off 
is  his  tooth  brush.    If  he  had  one  tender  tooth  in 
front,  they  would  soon  lose  their  whiteness.    Feed 
him  with  small  pieces  of  meat  for  a  month,  and 
they  will  be  any  thing  but  white. 

Tom.  0,  now  I  see !  We  ought  not  to  eat  with 
a  knife  and  fork,  or  spoon,  but  gnaw  the  meat  off 
the  bones.  I  cannot  help  laughing  at  the  thought 
of  all  our  boys  scrambling  for  a  bite  at  a  boiled 
leg  of  mutton ! 

Mr.  W.  Laughable  as  all  this  seems,  it  is  more 
rational  than  the  boys  or  girls,  or  men  or  women, 
who  cut  all  their  food,  and  keep  their  front  teeth 
in  perfect  idleness,  and,  shall  I  add  ?  —  dirtiness. 
Amelia.  I  Aould  think  that  cannibals,  sitting 
round  a  fire  and  eating  one  another,  would  have 
white  teeth. 

Tom.  And  the  Tartars  or  Abyssinians,  who  eat 
half-cooked  steaks. 


WHY   OUR  DOG'S   TEETH  ARE    \VHITE.  47 

Mr.  W.  I  dare  say  they  have  ;  but  you  need 
neither  be  Tartars,  nor  cannibals,  nor  dogs,  and 
yet  have  sound  and  white  teeth.  This  may  be 
done  by  removing  every  impurity  from  4he  teeth, 
and  scrubbing  the  gums  well,  daily,  with  the 
tooth  brush.  Remember,  that  although  you  may 
whiten  your  teeth  with  tooth  powders,  yet,  unless 
you  do  as  Ponto  does  with  his  tooth  brush,  — 
brush,  ay,  and  brush  roughly,  too,  both  tooth  and 
gum,  —  you  may  have  white  teeth,  but  they  cannot 
be  sound  and  healthy.  —  Brea/cfast-Table  Science, 


48  FLOWERS. 


FLOWERS. 

Flowers  for  the  humble  poor, 
Flowers  for  the  weak  and  lone, 

Let  them  gently,  gently  fall, 

Where  the  weeds  of  toil  are  sown. 

Lifting  up  foul  Discontent, 

From  the  lonely  tenement, 

As  the  fainting  toilers  there 

Catch  a  breath  of  Heaven's  air. 

Flowers !  lay  them  by  the  bed-     • 

Where  the  restless  sick  are  lying : 
Let  their  freshness  heal  the  air, 

Wounded  by  the  sufferer's  sighing, 
Let  his  eye  a  moment  rest 
Where  its  seeing  may  be  blessed, 
Ere  they  mingle  their  sweet  breath 
With  the  heavy  one  of  Death. 

Flowers  for  the  rich  and  proud ! 

Lay  them  in  the  costly  room 
Where  art's  thick  luxuriant  air 

May  from  Nature  catch  perfume, 
And  like  whispering  angels  start 
Pity  in  the  rich  man's  heart  — 
Pity  for  some  humble  one, 
Who  of  flowers  and  fruit  hath  none. 

D. 


THE   CLEVER    BOY.  49 

THE     CLEVER    BOY. 

BY  MRS.    S.    C.    HALL. 

"  Well,  but,  grandmama,"  expostulated  Edwin, 
"  every  body  says  I  am  very  clever  :  now  do  not 
laugh  ;  every  body  says  so,  and  what  every  body 
says  must  be  true." 

"  First,"  replied  his  grandmother,  "  I  do  not 
think  that  what  every  body  says  must  of  necessity 
be  true  ;  and  secondly,  in  what  consists  your 
every  body  ?  " 

"  Why,  there  is  nurse." 

"  Capital  authority  !  an  old  woman  who  nursed 
your  mother,  and,  consequently,  loves  you  dearly. 
Go  on." 

"  And  the  doctor  ;  he  said  I  was  a  good  boyj 
the  other  morning,  when  I  swallowed  the  pill 
without  a  wry  face." 

"  Go  on." 

"  All  the  servants." 

"  Excellent  servants,  Edwin,  for  the  situations 
they  are  engaged  to  fill,  but  bad  judges  of  a  young 

gentleman's  cleverness.     The  rector ?  ;; 

4 


50  THE   CLEVER   BOY. 

•'  That  is  cruel  of  you,  grandmamma,"  replied 
our  conceited  little  friend  ;  "  you  know  he  would 
not  say  it,  because  I  did  not  get  through  the  com- 
mandment, in  the  class,  last  Wednesday  evening." 

"  Does  your  papa  say  you  are  clever  ?  " 

The  little  fellow  made  no  reply. 

"  Do  your  schoolfellows  ?  " 

"  They  are  big  boys." 

"  Then  your  character  for  cleverness  depends 
on  the  old  nurse,  the  still  older  doctor,  and  the 
servants ! " 

Edwin  was  again  silent. 

"  This,"  observed  his  grandmother,  "  recalls  to 
my  mind  one  of  Randy  the  Woodcutter's  fables. 

"  A  very  pretty  little  tree  grew  near  a  quickset 
hedge  that  was  cut  close  by  the  gardener,  and 
the  hedge  looked  up  to  the  tiny  little  tree  with 
great  respect.  It  was  so  short  itself  that  it  fan- 
cied  the  tree  was  very  tall.  There  were  several 
brambles  and  nettles  also  round  about,  and  they 
were  perpetually  praising  the  little  tree,  and  in- 
creasing its  vanity  by  their  flattery.  One  day  an 
old  rook,  the  oldest  in  the  rookery,  perched  on 
the  little  tree. 

'  What  do  you  mean/  said  the  tiny  tree,  '  bj 


THE    CLEVER    BOY.  51 

/ 

troubling  me  with  your  familiarity  ?  The  idea  of 
such  a  bird  as  you  presuming  to  rest  upon  iny 
branches  ! '  and  the  little  tree  rustled  its  leaves 
arid  looked  very  angry. 

"  '  Caw,  caw ! '  quoth  the  rook,  which  signi- 
fied '  Ah,  ah  ! '  '  Why,  better  trees  than  you  are 
glad  to  give  me  a  resting-place.  I  thought  you 
would  be  gratified  by  the  compliment  paid  you  by 
alighting  on  your  quivering  bough,  and  by  the 
pleasure  of  my  company  :  a  little  thing  like  you 
could  hardly  have  possessed  much  attraction 
for  king  rook  ;  but,  indeed,  I  only  perched  upon 
you  because  you  are  a  little  taller  than  brambles.' 

"  The  dwarf  tree  considered  it  as  great  an  in- 
sult to  be  called  a  '  little  thing '  as  some  folks  do 
to  be  considered  '  not  clever ; '  and  he  said  a 
number  j?f  foolish  words  ;  amongst  others,  that 
1  there  were  birds  that  could  not  fly  over  him.' 

"  '  Ay,  indeed/  answered  the  rook, '  wrens,  that 
never  mount  higher  than  a  hedge ! ' 

"  The  rook  soon  flew  away,  '  caw-cawing  '  at  the 
folly  and  conceit  of  the  little  tree  ;  and,  meeting 
the  gardener,  '  Good  friend,'  he  said,  '  I  have  just 
now  been  much  struck  by  the  conceit  and  absur- 
dity of  a  little  tree  beside  yonder  hedge.  It  is 


52  THE   CLEVER   BOY. 

rather  a  pretty  little  thing,  and  might  be  brought 
to  something  if  it  were  in  the  society  of  trees 
taller  and  wiser  than  itself ;  but  while  it  has  no 
other  companions  than  brambles  and  bushes,  it 
will  never  try  to  grow  tall.  Do,  good  friend, 
take  pity  on  this  tree,  and  remove  it  into  better 
company.'  And  the  gardener  had  a  great  respect 
for  the  opinion  of  the  old  rook,  and  went,  the 
next  day,  with  a  spade,  and  removed  the  turf,  and 
bared  the  roots  of  the  conceited  tree.  '  It  is  a 
stunted  little  thing/  he  said ;  '  but  I  will  place  it 
in  society  that  will  draw  it  up ; '  and  he  trans- 
planted it  into  a  plantation  where  there  were 
straight  and  noble  trees.  The  little  sapling  felt 
bitterly  its  own  insignificance,  and  its  leaves  hung 
helplessly  from  the  boughs.  There  were  neither 
hedges,  nor  brambles,  nor  nettles,  to  flatter  its 
vanity  —  nothing  to  pamper  its  self-love.  There 
was  nothing  it  could  look  down  on  ;  the  wood- 
bine turned  to  the  oak  for  support,  and  the  wild 
vine  clung  around  the  ash.  Thus,  when  the  little 
tree  derived  no  pleasure  from  looking  down,  it  be- 
gan to  look  up.  There  was  a  proud,  fierce  sound 
amid  the  leaves  of  the  noble  trees,  and  the 
breezes  carried  the  sound  far  and  wide.  The 


THE    CLEVER    BOY.  53 

gardener  had  planted  the  little  tree  where  it  had 
plenty  of  head  room  ;  and  a  very  beautiful  beech 
which  grew  near  it  said,  '  Dear  me,  how  you  are 
shooting  ! '  and  several  of  the  good-natured  trees 
remarked  one  to  the  otter,  that '  their  little  neigh- 
bor seemed  determined  to  grow.'  This  was  quite 
true.  When  removed  from  the  babble  of  low-bred 
flattery,  and  placed  with  those  that  were  better  and 
higher  than  itself,  the  little  tree  began  to  under- 
stand that  false  praise —  that  is,  praise  for  what 
is  not  delved  —  is  the  bitterest  of  all  censures  ; 
and  all  its  hope  was,  that  it  might  grow  like 
other  trees,  to  be  useful  according  to  its  kind. 
One  stormy  night  a  sheep  and  her  lamb  sheltered 
beneath  its  branches.  That  made  the  tree  —  now 
no  longer  little  —  very  happy.  In  a  few  more 
years  the  gardener  laid  his  hand  on  its  stem, 
and  said  to  a  gentleman  who  was  walking  with 
him,  '  See  what  cultivation  —  which  is  the  educa- 
tion of  trees  —  does !  This  was  a  little  stunted 
thing  ;  but  the  good  society  of  tall  saplings  drew 
it  up.  See  what  it  is  now ! ' 

"  And  another  day,  when  there  was  a  very  high 
wind,  the  tree  saw  an  old,  gray-headed  rook 
drifting  about,  and  it  invited  him  to  rest ;  and 


64       ONLY  ONE  BRICK  ON  ANOTHER. 

the  rook  did  so  ;  and  the  tree  recognized  the 
roice  of  its  friend.  'I  am  happy  to  see  you, 
grandfather  rook,'  it  said  ;  '  very  happy  to  see 
you  ;  you  and  yours  are  quite  welcome  to  rest  on 
or  build  your  nests  amongfcay  branches.  But  for 
you,  I  should  have  remained  as  I  was,  to  be  fooled 
and  flattered  by  brambles  now  ;  but  I  have 
learned  to  let  acts,  and  not  words,  tell  what  I  am.' 
And  the  old  rook  '  caw-cawed '  again  and  again, 
and  signified  that  he  knew  the  time  would  come 
when  that  very  tree  would  be  remarl^d  alike  for 
its  vigor  and  its  beauty.  And  the  old  rook  told 
the  history  of  the  tree  —  as  old  people  sometimes 
tell  histories  —  over  and  over  again. 

"  I  ant  sure  I  would  be  very  proud  if  it  taught 
you,  my  dear,  the  folly  of  believing  that  you  are 
clever,  because  people  who  do  not  understand 
what  cleverness  is,  say  you  are  so." 


ONLY   ONE   BRICK   ON   ANOTHER. 

Edwin  was  one  day  looking  at  a  large  building, 
which  they  were  putting  up  just  opposite  to  his 


ONLY    ONE   BRICK   ON    ANOTHER.  55 

house.  He  watched  the  workmen  from  day  to 
day,  as  they  carried  up  the  bricks  and  mortar,  and 
then  placed  them  in  their  proper  order. 

His  father  said  to  him,  "  Edwin,  you  seem  to 
be  very  much  taken  up  with  the  bricklayers  ; 
pray,  what  may  you  be  thinking  about  ?  Have 
you  any  notion  of  learning  the  trade  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Edwin,  smiling  ;  "  but  I  was  just 
thinking  what  a  little  thing  a  brick  is,  and  yet 
that  great  house  is  built  by  laying  one  brick  on 
another." 

"Very  true,  my  boy.  Never  forget  it.  Just 
so  it  is  in  all  great  works.  All  your  learning  is 
only  one  little  lesson  added  to  another.  If  a 
man  could  walk  all  around  the  world,  it  would 
be  by  putting  one  foot  before  the  other.  Your 
whole  life  will  be  made  up  of  one  little  moment  af- 
ter another.  Drop  added  to  drop  makes  the  ocean. 

"  Learn  from  this  not  to  despise  little  things. 
Learn  also  not  to  be  discouraged  by  great  labors. 
The  greatest  labor  becomes  easy  if  divided  into 
parts.  You  could  not  jump  over  a  mountain,  but 
step  by  step  takes  you  to  the  other  side.  Do  not 
fear,  therefore,  to  attempt  great  things.  Always 
remember  that  the  whole  of  that  great  building 
is  only  one  brick  upon  another." 


56  THE   ADVENT   OF  HOPE. 


THE   ADVENT   OF  HOPE. 

Once  on  a  time,  from  scenes  of  light 
An  angel  winged  his  airy  flight ; 
Down  to  this  earth  in  haste  he  came, 
And  wrote,  in  lines  of  living  flame, 
These  words  on  every  thing  he  met,  — 
«  Cheer  up  ;  be  not  discouraged  yet." 

Then  back  to  heaven  with  speed  he  flew. 
Attuned  his  golden  harp  anew, 
Whilst  the  angelic  throng  came  round 
To  catch  the  soul-inspiring  sound  ; 
And  heaven  was  filled  with  new  delight 
For  HOPE  had  been  to  earth  that  night. 


CHILD    AND    SIRE. 

"  Know  you  what  intemperance  is  ?  " 

I  asked  a  little  child, 

• 
Who  seemed  fcao  young  to  sorrow  know. 

So  beautiful  and  mild. 
It  raised  its  tiny,  blue-veined  hand, 

And  to  a  churchyard  near 
It  pointed,  whilst  from  glistening  eye 

Came  forth  the  silent  tear. 


FLOWERS.  57 

FLOWERS. 

[PETER,  NELLiEr<md  CAROLINE.] 

I 
Peter.  (Jllone)  I  wish  Nellie   and  Gary  were 

here  ;  they  must  be  stopping  by  the  way  for  some- 
thing. 

Nellie  and  Gary.  (Coming  in.}  Peter,  Peter ! 
look  here  1  look  here !  see  what  a  lot  of  pretty 
flowers  we  have  fonnd !  (Showing  Peter  the 
flowers.)  Why  didn't  you  stop  and  gather  some  ? 

Peter.  How  pretty !  Why,  here  is  the 

(naming  the  flowers.)  Where  did  you  find  them  ? 
I  didn't  see  them  a»  I  came  to  school.  You  must 
have  stolen  them  out  of  Ned  Johnson's  garden. 

Nellie.  No,  we  didn't,  Peter.  We  wouldn't  do 
such  a  thing  ;  I  never  steal.  These  pretty  flowers 
all  grew  by  the  road  side,  near  uncle  Stephen's 
orchard. 

Gary.  Yes,  Peter,  and  there  were  plenty  more 
just  like  them.  See!  how  beautiful  this  star 
flower  looks ! 

Peter.  What  made  y^&  think  of  gathering 
flowers  to-day  ?  You  never  took  any  notice  of 
them  before. 


58  FLOWERS. 

Nellie.  Why,  you  know  our  teacher  gave  us  a 
lesson  the  other  day  on  plants  and  flowers,  taught 
us  their  names,  and  told  us,  when  we  found  any 
flowers,  to  bring  them  to  her,  and  she  would  tell 
us  what  they  were. 

Gary.  Yes,  Peter  ;  and  brother  Charles  is  go- 
ing to  make  me  some  little  boxes,  and  fill  them 
with  some  nice  mould  ;  and  all  the  pretty  plants 
I  can  find  I  am  going  to  transplant  into  the 
boxes,  so  I  can  water  them  and  see  them  grow. 

Peter.  Well,  Gary,  I  should  think  it  would  take 
a  great  many  boxes  to  hold  all  the  plants  you 
may  find,  if  you  get  as  many  every  day  as  you 
have  to-day. 

Gary.  Peter,  I  don't  mean  all  of  them  ;  I  mean 
only  the  pretty  ones. 

Peter.  I  should  think  you  would  rather  set 
them  out  in  your  father's  garden,  where  they 
would  grow  without  so  much  care. 

Nellie.  O,  you  know,  Peter,  that  would  only  do 
for  summer.  Cousin  Cary  wants  to  see  them 
grow  in  the  winter. 

Cary.  Yes,  Nellie,  you  know,  when  the  snow 
comes,  the  pretty  flowers  in  the  fields  and  gar- 
dens will  all  be  covered  up,  and  we  shall  not  see 


FLOWERS.  59 

them  again  till  the  warm  spring  sun  comes  and 
melts  the  snow,  and  brings  up  another  flower. 

Nellie.  Just  so,  Gary  ;  and  when  the  ground  is 
all  covered  with  snow,  and  every  thing  is  dead 
and  cold  in  the  fields  and  gardens,  we  shall  have 
our  little  garden  of  flowers  in  our  mother's  kitch- 
en, which  we  can  water  and  nourish  every  day. 
Do  you  remember,  Peter,  that  little  song  our 
teacher  taught  us  last  winter  about  the  flowers  ? 

Peter.   No,  Nellie  ;  what  was  it  ? 


My  pretty  flowers  are  gone  away, 

All  covered  with  the  snow ; 
And  I  must  wait  till  next  May-day, 

To  see  my  violets  grow. 

I'm  very  sure  the  leaves  will  peep 

Again  above  the  ground, 
Although  the  root  lies  very  deep, 

And  not  a  stem  is  found. 

I'm  told,  that  when  the  grave  shall  close 

O'er  little  Jane  and  me, 
We,  like  our  own  sweet,  fading  rose, 

Shall  dead  but  seem  to  be. 


60  FLOWERS. 

I  know  my  mother  tells  me  true ; 

I'm  not  afraid  to  go 
To  God,  who  showers  my  plants  with  dew, 

And  covers  them  with  snow. 

Peter.  Beautiful,  beautiful !  How  much  this 
song  reminds  me  of  my  cousin's  little  grave,  .where 
Margaret  used  to  go  and  water  the  plants  which 
her  mother  had  set  out  over  the  grave  ! 

Nellie.  Yes,  Peter,  these  flowers  remind  us 
also  of  death  and  the  resurrection  :  those  little 
seeds  (pointing  to  the  seeds  in  the  flower)  are  em- 
blems of  the  deathless  seed  within  us,  which,  if 
watered  by  the  dews  of  kindness,  and  cultured 
with  the  heavenly  Planter's  care,  will  spring  up, 
in  the  resurrection  morn,  plants  of  celestial 
beauty  and  unfading  loveliness.  May  the  good 
Gardener,  who  has  planted  these  seeds  of  immor- 
tality in  our  hearts,  so  nourish  them  by  his  kindly 
care,  that  when  the  long  winter  of  death  shall 
come,  they  shall  spring  up  in  the  immortal  spring 
of  life,  like  Sharon's  rose,  to  bloom  in  perpetual 
ver lure. 


Ji 


KIND   HEARTS   EVERYWHERE.  61 


KIND  HEARTS  EVERYWHERE. 

Why  should  we  call  the  path  of  life 

A  bleak  and  desert  spot, 
When  we  ourselves  but  make  it  so  ? 

No,  no,  —  believe  it  not ; 
For  though  the  ills  we're  doom'd  to  feel, 

Are  sometimes  hard  to  bear, 
The  world  we  live  in  teems  with  good 

And  kind  hearts  everywhere. 

A  wish  to  calm  each  other's  grief, 

To  soothe  each  other's  woes, 
In  every  bosom  finds  a  place  — 

And  thus  all  nature  glows. 
Men  of  all  climes,  abroad,  at  home, 

His  generous  feelings  share ;, 
The  world  we  live  in  teems  with  good 

And  kind  hearts  everywhere. 

And  should  misfortune's  heavy  hand 

On  every  side  prevail, 
Or  sorrow's  overwhelming  storm 

Our  happy  hours  assail, 
To  feel  is  folly,  wise  men  say, 

Then  why  should  we  despair  ? 
The  world  we  live  in  teems  with  good 

And  kind  hearts  everywhere. 


62  VOICE   OF  NEW   ENGLAND. 

VOICE    OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

BY  J.   G.   WHITTIEB. 


Up  the  hill-side,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen  ; 
Summon  out  the  might  ot  men  1 

Like  a  lion  growling  low, 
Like  a  night  storm  rising  slow, 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe,  — 

It  is  coming  —  it  is  nigh  ! 
Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by ; 
On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires  ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal  fires. 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame- tongued  heralds  speak. 

O,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart,  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 


VOICE   OF    NEW   ENGLAND.  63 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow  I 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
Por  a  free  and  fearless  race. 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party,  perish  clan  ! 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm.  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  the  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime, 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time,  — 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth. 
Let  the  north  unto  the  south 
Speak  a  word  befitting  both. 


We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand,  — 

Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrims'  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God  t 


64  I'LL  BE  A  MAN. 

I'LL  BE   A  MAN. 


I  mean  to  be  a  man  !  I'm  a  boy  now,  a  little 
boy.  Look  at  my  little  arms,  my  little  hands  and 
fingers,  my  little  feet !  See,  how  small  they  all  are ! 
But  I  have  been  smaller  than  this  ;  so  small  that  I 
could  take  up  in  these  little  arms  what  was  once 
myself,  and  rock  myself  to  sleep.  But  I  am  grow- 
ing, growing  to  be  a  man.  These  little  arms  will 
stretch  themselves  out,  and  grow,  and  become 
strong.  These  little  legs  will  stretch  themselves 
out,  and  grow,  and  I  shall  become  tall.  This  little 
head  shall  expand  itself,  and  I  shall  become  wise. 
And  then  I  shall  become  a  man,  and  wear  man's 
clothes.  And  when  I  come  to  be  a  man,  I'll  vote, 
you  know  ;  but  politicians,  knaves,  and  fools  shall 
never  have  my  vote. 


TO  MY  SISTER. 


TO  MY  SISTER. 

Sweet  sister,  tell  me  if  my  home, 

My  own  dear  home,  is  now 
As  when  I  left,  long  months  ago, 

With  sadness  on  my  brow. 

O,  tell  me  if  the  sun  shines  in' 

As  brightly  as  of  yore, 
When  in  onr  childhood-years  we  built 

Our  play-house  on  the  floor.  • 

And  if  the  sweet,  pale  moon,  and  stars, 

And  evening's  sky  are  fair, 
As  when  beside  a  parent's  knee, 

We  lisped  our  infant  prayer. 

And  tell  me  if  the  red-breast  comes, 

With  song  so  glad  and  free, 
To  build  her  nest,  and  rear  her  young, 

In  the  old  Balm-Gilead  tree. 

And  doth  thy  lip  still  wear  its  smile, 

Thy  cheek  its  roseate  hue, 
Thy  heart  still  own  its  brightness  yet, 

Thine  eyes  their  heavenly  blue  ? 

Sweet  sister,  thou  art  dear  to  me, 
More  dear  than  words  can  tell ; 

And  should  I  sin,  methinks  'twill  be 
In  loving  thee  too  well. 

M.  B.  BROW*. 


66  THE  PLEDGE. 


THE  PLEDGE. 

A  tippler  I  mil  never  be  ; 

No  drop  my  lips  shall  pass ; 
I'll  sign  the  true  teetotal  pledge^ 

And  keep  it  till  the  last. 
Nor  will  I  use  the  poison  weed, 

Which  now  so  many  crave, 
Because  I  mean  to  be  a  man, 
And  never  be  a  slave. 

O  ye  tipplers, 
Don't  you  fret  for  me  ; 
For  when  I  come  to  be  a  man, 
I'm  going  to  be  free. 

And  many  years  must  pass  away, 

And 'I  must  go  to  school, 
That  if  they  choose  me  president, 

I  may  know  how  to  rule. 
With  knowledge  I  must  store  my  mind, 

For,  though  I'm  e'er  so  tall, 
If  I  am  rude  and  ignorant, 
I  shall  be  very  small. 

Men  of  learning, 
Don't  you  fret  for  me  ; 
I'll  study,  that,  when  I'm  a  man, 
A  wise  one  I  will  be. 


GEORGE   AND    HIS   DOG.  67 


GEORGE    AND    HIS    DOG. 


In  a  lordly  castle,  rich  and  gay, 

There  lives  a  little  boy ; 
And  often  he  goes  out  to  play, 

With  his  good  dog  Le  Roy. 

The  garden  it  is  very  fair, 

With  many  fine  old  trees  ; 
And  little  George  can  frolic  there, 

Whenever  he  may  please. 

This  Georgy  loves  a  caper,  too, 

As  well  as  brisk  Le  Roy : 
A  thousand  things  that  dog  will  do 

To  please  the  darling  boy. 

Sometimes  he  runs  all  round  and  round 
To  catch  his  own  black  tail ; 

Then  quickly  scampers  o'er  the  ground 
For  George's  little  pail. 

And  oft  the  faithful  dog  will  kneel; 

When  master  wants  a  ride  ; 
And  very  proud  he  seems  to  feel 

While  Georgy  climbs  his  side. 


68  THE  FLY  WITH  A   SORE  TOE. 

THE  FLY  WITH  A  SORE  TOE. 

• 

(MASTER  BILLY,  TOM,  and  MATTY.) 

Master  Billy.  Matty,  if  a  fly  had  a  sore  ttfe, 
what  would  happen  ? 

Matty.  Master  Billy,  your  question  is  very 
ridiculous.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  fly  with  a  sore 
toe? 

Master  Billy.  And  pray,  miss,  who  ever  heard 
of  "  that  tribe  who  threw  stones  into  their  ma- 
chines," and  many  other  .wonderful  events. 

Tom.  I  cannot  imagine  a  sore  toe  would  be  of 
any  very  great  consequence  to  him.  He  could  fly 
and  crawl  up  and  down. 

Master  Billy.  I  rather  doubt  the  crawling  up 
and  down.  He  might  fly  up,  and  fly  down,  but 
not  crawl. 

Tom.   I  do  not  see  that  at  all. 

Master  Billy.  Probably  not ;  it  is  wonderful 
how  very  little  boys  and  girls  do  see  in  any  thing, 
until  their  eyes  are  opened. 

Tom.  B'at  why  cannot  a  lame  fly  crawl  ? 


THE  FLY  WITH  A   SORE  TOE.  69 

Master  Billy.  Did  you  ever  see  what  boys  call 
a  sucker,  made  of  leather,  softened  ?  It  is  put 
flat  upon  a  stone,  the  centre  is  pulled  up,  and  the 
sucker  pulls  the  stone  up  with  it. 

Tom.  How  does  it  do  that  ? 
-  Master  Billy.  By  taking  off  the  pressure  of  the 
air  from  that  part  of  the  stone  under  the  sucker, 
the  outward  pressure  of  the  air  on  the  sucker 
confines  it  to  the  stone,  as  if  it  were  a  part  of  it. 
If  the  edge  of  the  leather  were  notched  and  un- 
even, what  would  take  place  ? 

Tom.   It  would  not  fit  close  to  the  stone. 

Master  Billy.  And  of  course  the  stone  would 
not  stick  to  the  sucker. 

Tom.  Certainly  not. 

Master  Billy.  Well,  that  is  the  reason  why  a 
fly  with  a  sore  toe  cannot  crawl  up  and  down. 
You  remember,  I  never  said  he  could  not  crawl. 

Tom.  But,  Master  Billy,  what  has  a  fly's  foot  to 
do  with  a  sucker  ? 

Master  Bitty.  Every  thing.  If  its  foot  did  not 
act  as  this  sucker,  it  could  not  walk  up  and  down 
the  smooth  panes  of  glass,  nor  with  its  head  down- 
wards upon  the  ceiling. 

Tom.   Then  you  think  if  it  had  a  sore  toe  it 


70  THE  FLY  WITH  A   SORE  TOE. 

would  not  press  hard  enough  upon  the  pane  to 
hold  on? 

Master  Billy.  Certainly  ;  and  a  more  beautiful 
contriyance  is  not  to  be  found  in  bird  or  beast. 
Can  either  of  you  tell  me  what  you  think  is  the 
use  of  flies  ? 

Matty.   To  fly  about  the  window  ? 

Master  Billy.  That  is  their  play-ground,  little 
missy. 

Tom.  To  eat  the  sugar  out  of  the  basin  ? 

Master  Billy.  That  is  their  bull's  eyes  and  lol- 
lypops. 

Matty.  Are  they  to  eat  peaches  and  other 
fruit. 

Master  Billy.   That  is  very  near  it. 

Tom.  Is  it  not  to  eat  up  every  thing  that  is  use- 
less to  man,  and  would  be  offensive  to  his  sight 
or  smell  ? 

Master  Billy.  I  think  it  is.  *  When  food  be- 
comes putrid  and  unfit  for  use,  it  is  highly  rel- 
ished by  the  epicure  fly. 


Never  form  a  resolution  that  is  not  a  good  one ; 
and  when  once  formed,  never  break  it. 


CARE. —  TRUE  LOVE.  —  THE  BIBLE.     71 


CARE. 

If  every  one's  internal  care 

Were  written  on  his  brow, 
How  many  would  our  pity  share 

Who  raise  our  envy  now  ! 
The  fatal  secret,  when  revealed, 

Of  every  aching  breast, 

Would  fully  prove,  that  while  concealed 

Their  lot  appears  the  best. 


TRUE    LOYE. 

'Tis  not  the  face,  'tis  not  the  form, 
'Tis  not  the  heart,  however  warm  ; 
It  is  not  these,  though-oW  combined, 
That  win  true  love ;  it  is  the  mind. 


THE     BIBLE. 

Behold  the  Book,  whose  leaves  display 
Jesus,  the  life,  the  truth,  the  way ; 
Read  it  with  diligence  and  prayer; 
Search  it,  and  you  shall  find  him  there. 


72  I  LIVE  TO   LEARN. 


I  LIVE  TO  LEARN. 

Though  many  a  hope  that  I  have  cherishsd 

Has  faded  to  my  sight, 
And  many  a  joy  of  mine  has  perished 

With  many  a  dream  of  light. 

Yet,  though  I've  watched  each  joy  depart, 

Each  hope  more  dimly  burn ; 
Still  fondly  beats  this  trusting  heart, 

I'm  living  but  to  learn. 

I  live  to  learn  the  truth  of  life, 

Its  toils,  and  pains,  and  fears, 
Its  hours  of  agony  and  strife, 

In  this  dark  vale  of  tears. 

I  live  to  learn !  and  though  severe 

My  lessons  sometimes  seem, 
Then  comes  the  thought,  to  stay  the  tear, 

This  life  is  but  a  dream. 

Life  hath  its  joys !  I'm  often  glad, 
Though  fate  is  sometimes  stern ; 

I  prize  the  lesson  I  have  had, 
That  I  but  "  live  to  learn." 

M.  a 


WHAT  THE   PINE   TREES  SAID.  73 


WHAT  THE  PINE  TREES  SAID. 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  morning ;  the  sun  shone 
brightly,  but  the  wind  blew  a  chilling  blast  over 
the  new-fallen  snow.  "  Come,  little  boys,"  said 
mamma,  "  you  must  go  to  uncle  Howard's  for  the 
milk."  "  0,  it  is  so  cold  !  "  exclaimed  Herbert. 
"  So  very  cold  !  "  echoed  Arthur. 

"  Never  mind  the  cold,"  answered  mamma ; 
"  wrap  yourselves  up  well,  and  walk  fast,  and  you 
will  soon  feel  warm." 

Still  the  little  boys  lingered  ;  the  coats  and 
tippets  —  the  warm  scarlet  tippets  their  aunts  had 
knit  —  were  on,  and  their  mittens  in  their  hands  ; 
but  still  they  lingered.  "  Run  along,  little  boys," 
again  said  mamma  ;  "  go  and  hear  what  the  pine 
trees  will  say." 

Arthur  looked  up  :  "I  never  heard  them  say 
any  thing  :  what  will  they  say,  mamma  ?  " 

"  They  almost  always  say  something  to  me," 
answered  mamma.  "  The  other  day,  when  I  was 
coming  Jiome  from  uncle  Howard's,  they  said, 
'  Hurry^ome  fast ;  little  Bessie  wants  to  see  you ; 
so  do  the  little  boys.'  And  one  very  bright  morn- 


74  WHAT   THE   PINE   TREES    SAID. 

ing  I  heard  them  say,  '  How  pleasant  it  is !  how 
good  God  is  !  be  cheerful,  be  happy ! ' "  Herbert 
and  Arthur  listened  with  interest.  "  Come,"  said 
Arthur,  "  I  should  like  to  know  what  they  will 
Bay  to  us." 

They  hurried  out ;  and  little  Bessie  watched 
them  through  the  gate  and  up  the  hill,  as  long  as 
she  could  see  their  red  tippets.  Soon  they  came 
to  the  pine  grove. 

"  I  don't  hear  any  thing,"  said  Herbert.  The 
wind  blew  through  the  branches  with  a  murmur- 
ing sound.  "  I  hear  something,"  replied  Arthur  ; 
"  but  it  is  only,  '  How  cold  it  is !  how  cold  it  is ! 
Run  along,  or  you  will  freeze.'  " 

On  they  went ;  the  wind  was  piercing  cold  ; 
their  fingers  ached.  Arthur  was  ready  to  cry  ; 
and,  indeed,  when  they  reached  their  aunt's  warm 
breakfast  room,  the  tears  were  beginning  to  start. 
But  aunt  Louisa  was  very  kind  :  she  warmed  their 
fingers,  gave  them  a  biscuit  to  eat,  and,  better 
than  all,  spoke  kind,  comforting  words  to  them. 
Then,  with  their  pail  of  milk,  and  a  cake  for 
Bessie,  the  little  boys  started  for  home.  The 
wind  was  now  behind  them,  the  sun  h^kgrown 
warmer,  and  their  hearts  were  full  of  pleasant 


WHAT  THE  PINE   TEEES  SAID.  75 

thoughts.  They  forgot  the  pine  trees  till  they 
were  nearly  opposite  them.  Then  they  listened, 
and  the  trees  seemed  to  say,  "  Happy  little  boys  ! 
how  kind  every  body  is  !  Try  to  be  good." 

They  were  soon  at  home,  and  with  bright  faces 
sat  down  to  warm  their  feet,  and  recount  what 
they  had  seen  and  heard. 

"  And  what  did  the  pine  trees  say  ?  "  asked 
mamma. 

"  0,  they  didn't  really  talk,"  replied  Arthur ; 
"  but  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  almost  crying 
when  we  went,  and  they  were  as  merry  as  birds 
when  we  came  home." 

"  Ah,  you  have  found  out  the  secret,"  said 
mamma.  "  The  pine  trees  seem  to  say  just  what 
is  in  our  own  hearts.  They  sighed  and  complained 
when  you  were  going,  feeling  cold  and  sad  ;  but, 
when  you  came  home  bright  and  happy,  the  wind 
through  the  branches  spoke  of  sunshine  and  hap- 
piness. Try  to  keep  the  kind,  loving  thoughts  in 
your  hearts,  little  boys  ;  then  the  pine  trees  will 
always  echo  back  gratitude  and  love."  —  From 
Jlunt  Mary's  Portfolio. 


76  THE  HOME   OF  THE  HEART. 

THE  HOME   OF   THE   HEART. 

* 


O,  give  me  the  wings  of  a  dove, 
And  I'll  fly  to  some  bright  land  away, 

That  is  ruled  by  the  spirit  of  love, 
"Where  fountains  of  happiness  play. 

I'll  go  where  the  bright,  sunny  skies 
Are  never  obscured  by  a  cloud, 

Where  loveliest  prospects  arise, 
And  the  heart  ne'er  by  sorrow  is  bowed. 

I'll  go  where  the  silver  streams  flow 
Through  valleys  that  ever  are  green, 

On  whose  banks  the  fair  lily  doth  grow, 
And  the  bright  rose  of  Sharon  is  seen. 

I'll  go  where,  with  form  that's  divine, 
And  clothed  with  an  angel's  bright  wing* 

The  spirit  of  beauty  reclines, 

And  the  bright  bird  of  paradise  sings. 

But  a  voice  often  rises  in  me, 

'«  Can  this  happiness  ever  be  mine  ? 

To  some  bright  fairy  land  can  I  flee, 
Untouched  jy  the  finger  of  time  ?  " 


THE  HOME   OP   THE   HEART.  77 

««  No,  wanderer,"  a  low  voice  replies, 
"  Here  this  happiness  ne'er  can  be  thine ; 

The  bliss  for  which  the  heart  sighs 
Is  found  in  a  sunnier  clime." 

k«  Go  pilot  me  there,  then,"  I  cried, 
"  Blest  messenger  sent  from  the  skies  ; 

There  in  peace  and  in  love  I'll  abide, 
Where  angels'  soft  music  shall  rise." 

"  'Tis  beyond  where  the  sun  sinks  to  rest, 
Far  beyond  these  pale  shadows  of  even  ; 

'Tis  a  lovely  abode,  the  repose  of  the  blest, 
The  home  of  the  pure  —  'tis  in  heaven." 

G.  11.  AVERT. 


78  THE  BIBLE. 


THE  BIBLE, 


This  little  book  I'd  rather  own 
Than  all  the  gold  and  gems 

That  e'er  in  monarch's  coffers  shone, 
Than  all  their  diadems. 

Nay,  were  the  seas  one  chrysolite, 

The  earth  a  golden  ball, 
And  diamonds  all  the  stars  of  night* 

This  book  were  worth  them  alt, 

He  who  died  on  Calv'ry's  tree 
Hath  made  that  promise  blest : 

««  Ye  heavy  laden,  come  to  me, 
And  I  will  give  you  rest. 

"  A  bruised  reed  I  will  not  break, 

A  contrite  heart  despise; 
My  burden's  light,  and  all  who  take 

My  yoke,  shall  win  the  skies  ! " 


WHO  MADE  ALL  THINGS  ?  79 


WHO  MADE  ALL  THINGS  ? 

God  made  the  earth  — 

And  said,  bring  forth  for  great  and  small, 

The  flowers  and  fruit  — 

Pleasant  for  taste,  and  good  for  all. 

God  made  the  sea  — 

So  broad  —  so  rich  —  in  treasure  hidden  deeps, 
Where  living  things,  and  precious  pearl, 
And  the  lost  sailor  sleeps. 

God  made  the  mountain  — 

Whose  blue  peaks  reach  upward  to  the  sky, 

Snow  capp'd  and  verdure  crowned ; 

They  ever  point  to  Him  on  high. 

God  spread  the  sky  — 
In  whose  blue  depths  are  set 
Bright  gems  of  night,  the  twinkling  stars, 
A  spangled  diadem. 

God  made  the  beast  and  birds  — 

A  curious,  wonderous  group, 

In  strength  and  beauty,  rare  and  great, 

They  speak  His  excellence  to  create. 

God  m&Ae  frail  man  — 
And  placed  him  here,  a  finished  work ; 
•But  when  he  sinned,  He  drove  him  forth, 
Doomed  to  labor,  pain,  and  death. 

C. 


80    "WHY  is  THE  ROSE  MOST  BEAUTIFUL?" 


"  WHY  IS  THE  ROSE  MOST  BEAUTIFUL  ?  " 

Why  is  the  rose  most  beautiful 

Among  the  flowers  that  bloom, 
Where  lily,  daisy,  daffodil, 

All  mingle  their  perfume  ? 

Is  it  because  her  varied  tints 

Are  blended  into  one, 
Or  jewelled  with  the  morning  dews, 

She  sparkles  in  the  sun  ? 

The  colors  of  the  violet 

Are  not  less  pure  or  bright ; 
The  dew  upon  her  azure  cheek 

Eesembles  stars  by  night. 

And  yet  more  varied  are  the  tints 

The  gorgeous  dahlia  shows  — 
Still,  is  the  rose  most  beautiful, 

Still,  loveliest  is  the  rose. 

But  'tis  not  from  the  outward  charms 

That  captivate  the  eye, 
That  thus  in  grove  and  bower  she  reigns 

In  peerless  majesty. 

The  magic  that  sustains  her  power, 

Is  innate,  secret,  sure  : 
There's  many  a  gayer,  prouder  flower, 

But  ah,  not  one  so  pure. 

AKOH. 


MY   COUNTRY.  81 

MY   COUNTRY. 


I  love  my  country's  pine-clad  hills, 
Her  thousand  bright  and  gushing  rills, 

Her  sunshine  and  her  storms  ; 
Her  rough  and  ragged  rocks,  that  rear 
Their  hoary  heads  high  in  the  air, 

In  wild,  fantastic  forms. 

I  love  her  rivers  deep  and  wide, 

Those  mighty  streams  that  seaward  glide, 

To  se<»k  the  ocean's  breast ; 
Her  mighty  fields,  her  pleasant  vales, 
Her  shady  dells,  her  flowery  dales, 

The  haunts  of  peaceful  rest. 

I  love  her  forests  dark  and  lone, 
For  there  the  wild  birds'  merry  tone 

I  heard  from  morn  till  night ; 
And  there  are  lovelier  flowers,  I  ween, 
Than  e'er  in  Eastern  lands  were  seen, 

In  varied  colors  bright. 

Her  forests,  and  her  valleys  fair, 

Her  flowers,  that  scent  the  morning  air, 

Have  all  their  charms  for  me  ; 
But  more  I  love  my  country's  name, 
Those  words  that  echo  deathless  fame, 

«'  The  land  of  Liberty!  " 
6 


82  FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

PROPERTY ;   OR,  YOURS  AND  MINE. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

[M.  DE  VERTEUIL,  ADRIEN,  his  Son,  and  a  little  Girl.] 

Jldrlen.  See,  papa,  the  handsome  flowers!  I 
will  go  and  gather  some. 

M.  de  V.  You  must  not,  Adrien  ;  I  forbid  you 
to  touch  them. 

Adr.  Why,  papa,  I  pray  you,  may  I  not  have 
some? 

M.  de  V.  Because  these  flowers  are  not  yours  ; 
they  belong  to  the  gardener,  who  lives  yonder  in 
that  small  cottage. 

Mr.   0  papa,  only  two  or -three! 

M.  de  V.  Not  one.  Do  you  not  remember,  my 
son,  that  you  complained  to  me  the  other  day  that 
your  sister  had  torn  up  your  lettuce  to  sow  migno- 
nette in  its  place  ? 

Jldr.  Well,  papa,  had  not  I  reason  ?  I  had  so 
much  trouble  to  make  my  lettuce  grow. 

M.  de  V.  What  had  you  done  to  make  it 
grow? 


FROM   THE   FRENCH.  8S 

Jidt.  I  cleared  a  little  spot  of  ground  of  weeds 
and  stones,  spaded  up  the  ground,  manured  it,  and 
then  transplanted  some  lettuce,  which  I  watered 
every  morning  and  evening.  And  when  my  let- 
tuce had  grown,  and  I  had  hoped  to  present  you 
with  some  salad,  my  sister  came  and  destroyed 
it  all,  because  she  thought  her  mignonette  had  a 
better  smell.  What  do  you  say  of  this  fine  un- 
dertaking ? 

M.  de.  V.  I  say  it  was  very  bad  of  her,  since  it 
was  your  garden,  and  you  had  taken  so  much 
trouble  to  cultivate  it. 

Mr.  Should  she  thus  make  me  lose,  to  gratify 
a  little  caprice,  all  the  fruit  of  my  labors  ? 

M.  de  V.  Certainly  not  ;  but  know  you  not, 
my  son,  that  the  pain  your  sister  has  given  you 
by  tearing  up  your  lettuce  is  nothing  to  compare 
with  that  you  would  cause  the  gardener,  were  you 
to  tear  up  the  flowers  ? 

JLdr.  How,  papa,  I  pray  you  ? 

M.  de  V.  Because  he  has  taken  still  more  pains 
to  adorn  his  garden  than  you  have  to  cultivate 
yours. 

ftdr.    What  pains  has  he  taken,  papa  ? 

M .  de  V.    I   will   tell  you.     Last  autumn  he 


84  FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

cleared  out  all  the  beds  ;  he  spread  over  them 
a  very  rich  manure,  and  planted  a  great  many 
bulbous  roots,  which  you  now  see  in  blossom.  Do 
you  not  know  those  bulbous  roots  that  your 
mother  has  placed  in  the  vases  on  the  mantel  ? 

Mr.  Indeed,  papa,  these  flowers  are  exactly 
like  mamma's. 

M.  de  V.  Yes ;  but  they  cost  the  gardener 
much  more  trouble  to  make  them  grow.  After 
having  put  these  bulbous  roots  in  the  ground,  he 
covered  them  over  with  manure  to  keep  them 
from  the  cold,  and  made  straw  beds  to  preserve 
them  from  the  frost.  On  the  approach  of  spring 
he  uncovered  these  flowers  by  degrees,  and  care- 
fully watered  them  when  the  weather  was  too  dry. 
How  much  trouble  it  has  cost  him  to  rear  them, 
till  they  have  attained  their  present  size !  Now, 
if  you  would  go  and  pluck  one,  and  I  another, 
and  all  others  should  do  the  same,  would  not  all 
the  labor  of  this  industrious  man  be  lost  ? 

Adr.  Yes,  papa,  that  is  true  ;  but  what  does 
he  do  with  all  these  flowers?  He  cannot  eat 
them,  as  we  would  have  eaten  our  lettuce. 

M.  de  V.  No,  my  sou  ;  but  he  gathers  them  to 
§ell  in  the  city.  By  this  means  he  procurea 


r 

FROM   THE   FRENCH.  85 

:  i 

money  ;  and  you  know  he  must  have  that  to  lodge 
and  feed  himself.  The  more  he  has  in  his  garden, 
the  more  money  he  receives.  You  understand  this 
without  explanation  —  do  you  not? 

Jidr.  Yes,  papa,  I  understand  very  well ;  but 
Louis,  our  gardener,  does  not  complain  when  you 
gather  the  flowers  for  us  ;  however,  I  have  seen 
that  he  takes  much  pains  to  cultivate  them.  Yes- 
terday he  came  with  his  wife  and  all  his  children 
to  pull  up  the  weeds.  "  Because,"  said  he,  "  the 
flowers  will  become  larger  and  more  beautiful." 

M.  de  V.  That  is  very  true ;  but  do  you  wish 
that  I  would  show  you  the  difference"  ? 

Mr.   I  would  be  much  obliged  to  you,  papa. 

M.  de  V.  If  my  affairs  would  permit  me,  I 
would  myself  plant  and  cultivate  the  trees  and 
flowers  of  my  garden.  But  I  am  often  occupied 
with  more  important  affairs.  So  I  hired  the  gar- 
dener, Louis,  to  keep  it  in  order.  For  this  I 
promised  to  give  him  one  hundred  crowns  a  year. 
By  virtue  of  this  agreement,  all  the  fruits  and 
flowers  that  grow  in  my  garden  belong  to  me.  But 
neither  you  nor  I,  nor  any  other  person,  has  given 
any  thing  to  this  gardener  for  his  care.  lie  culti- 
vates this  garden  for  his  own  advantage,  and  there- 


86  FROM    THE    FRENCH. 

fore  nobody  has  any  right  to  prevent  it  by  coming 
and  gathering  the  flowers  he  has  taken,  so  much 
pains  to  cultivate. 

Adr.  You  are  right,  papa  ;  but  suppose  you 
give  him  money  for  some  of  his  flowers  ? 

M.  de  V.  Then  he  will  willingly  give  them 
to  us. 

Mr.  Well,  let  us  buy  some,  I  pray  you.  I 
have  six  cents  that  I  can  lay  out. 

M.  de  V.  You  cannot  obtain  many  for  six 
cents.  The  season  is  not  yet  advanced  ;  flowers 
are  rare,  and  consequently  bear  a  high  price. 
Let  us,  however,  go  to  his  cottage  and  speak 
with  him. 

Mr.   Let  us  go,  papa !    Let  us  go  I 

M.  de.  V.  (Advancing.}  His  door  seems  to  be 
fastened  ;  I  fear  he  has  gone  out.  Go,  knock. 
(Mrien  runs  and  knocks  at  the  door.  JVo  one  an- 
swers. He  returns.) 

M.  de  V.  He  has,  without  doubt,  gone  to  sell 
his  flowers  in  the  city.  We  will  buy  some  anoth- 
er time. 

Mr.  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  cannot  carry  a 
handsome  bouquet  for  mamma. 

M.  de  V.   Since  you  have  that  wish,  I  can  pro- 


.J 


FROM    THE   FRENCH.  87 

CLre  other  flowers  which  are  not  so  rare,  but  are, 
nevertheless,  quite  as  beautiful. 

Mr.   Where,  papa  ? 

M.  de  V.  Yonder,  in  that  heath.  We  shall 
there  find  some  wild  flowers  that  no  person  has 
sown  or  planted,  but  which  grow  of  themselves 
on  the  old  stocks,  or  which  spring  from  seed  fallen 
from  the  flowers  of  the  last  year. 

Mr.  0,  that  is  wonderful,  papa.  Will  you 
take  me  there  ? 

M.  de  V.  With  great  pleasure,  my  son.  (They 
go  to  the  heath.} 

Mr.  0,  look,  papa,  at  the  number  of  handsome 
flowers.  May  I  gather  them  ? 

M.  de  V.  Yes,  my  son,  you  may  gather  them, 
without  doing  the  least  injury  to  any  body. 
(Mrien  begins  to  gather  the  flowers.) 

Mr.  0,  papa,  see  how  many  I  have -already 
gathered!  I  can  hold  no  more  in  my  hand.  I 
am  afraid  I  shall  spoil  them. 

M.  de  V.  Have  you  nothing  you  can  put 
them  in  ? 

Adr.  No  ;  I  do  not  know  how.  0,  I  cannot 
think.  My  hat  will  do  very  well. 

M.  de  V.   Without  doubt  the  weather  is  mild 


88  FROM    THE   FRENCH. 

enough  to  have  the  head  uncovered.  (Jldrien  puts 
the  flowers  in  his  hat,  and  continues  to  gather.) 

Jldr.  0  papa,  here  are  two  eggs  that  I  have 
just  found  in  a  basket.  I  will  take  them. 

M.  de  V.  What  have  you  done,  Adrian  ?  You 
should  not  have  taken  these  eggs,  as  they  do  not 
belong  to  you.  They  belong  to  some  one ;  for 
they  did  not  get  into  the  basket  of  themselves. 

Jl  little,  girl  comes  out  from  among  the  heath, 
where  she  was  concealed,  and  seeing  the  eggs  in  the 
hand  of  Jldrien,  she  runs  to  his  hat,  which  she  seizes, 
with  the  flowers,  crying,  "  My  little  master,  those 
eggs  are  mine.  If  you  do  not  give  them  to  me,  I 
will  keep  your  hat." 

Jldrien  quits  his  father,  and  runs  after  the  little 
girl.  He  makes  a  false  step,  falls  upon  the  eggs,  and 
breaks  them.  He  rises,  and  cries  to  the  little  girl, 
"How,  you  little  thief?  Are  you  not  going  to 
give  me  my  flowers  ?  I  have  had  the  trouble  of 
collecting  them  ;  they  belong  to  me." 

Girl.  I  also  have  taken  the  trouble  to  seek 
those  lapwing's  eggs  that  you  have  taken  from 
me.  They  are  mine  ;  you  must  restore  them, 
or  you  shall  neither  have  your  hat  nor  your 
flowers. 


FROM   THE  FRENCH.  89 

Mr.  How  do  you  wish  ine  to  restore  your 
eggs  ?  I  have  broken  them,  by  accident. 

Girl.  Well,  in  that  case,  you  must  pay  me  what 
they  would  sell  for  in  the  city. 

Jldr.  (To  his  father,  who  had  approached  in  the 
interval.)  Do  you  hear,  papa  ?  She  wishes  to 
keep  my  hat  and  my  flowers. 

M.  de  V.  What  do  you  wish  me  to  say,  Adrian? 
Why  did  you  break  the  eggs  ?  She  has  taken 
the  trouble  to  find  them  that  she  might  sell  them  ; 
it  is  not  just  that  you  should  make  her  lose  the 
fruit  of  her  labor.  Tell  me,  my  child,  how  much 
they  are  sold  for  ? 

Girl.  Three  cents  apiece,  sir,  is  the  common 
price. 

M.  de  V.  (To  Adrien.}  You  see,  my  son,  you 
have  made  this  little  girl  lose  six  cents.  You 
must  give  her  the  money  that  you  just  now  wished 
to  give  the  gardener  for  a  bouquet.  (To  the  little 
girl.)  Will  you  not  return  on  this  condition  his 
hat  and  his  flowers  ? 

Girl.   Yes,  sir  ;  I  ask  nothing  more. 

M.  de  V.  In  that  case,  both  of  you  are  out 
of  trouble. 

Jldr.   Yes,  papa  ;  but  it  will  cost  me  six  cents. 


90  FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

M.  de  V.  You  deserve  it.  Why  did  you  touch 
that  which  did  not  belong  to  you?  You  could 
here  gather  flowers,  because  they  grow  naturally, 
no  person  taking  the  trouble  to  cultivate  them  ; 
but  you  should  know  that  eggs  are  not  found  in  a 
basket  without  some  one  putting  them  there. 
This  little  girl  has  ran  a  long  time  in  the  heath 
to  find  them ;  you  had  no  right  to  seize  on  the 
fruit  of  her  labor  ;  therefore  you  must  pay  her 
the  value  of  the  eggs  in  money.  This  value  is 
just  six  cents.  Unless  you  pay  her  this,  the  little 
girl  has  a  right  to  retain  your  flowers  and  your 
hat  till  you  have  satisfied  her. 

Mr.  Yes,  papa,  I  feel  the  justice  of  your  judg- 
ment. Here,  my  friend,  are  my  six  cents  ;  they  are 
yours. 

Girl.  (Returning  his  hat  and  flowers.)  Here,  my 
little  master,  here  is  what  belongs  to  you. 

M.  de  V.  Now,  my  son,  if  you  wish  always  to 
do  right,  you  will  henceforth  never  touch  what 
you  find  without  knowing  whether  it  belongs  to 
any  one  or  not. 

Adr.  Yes,  paj>a  ;  it  is  a  good  lesson,  I  assure 
you,  and  I  shall  be  wiser  for -the  future. 


MORNING   HYMN.  91 


MORNING   HYMN. 

The  morning  bright, 

With  rosy  light, 
Has  waked  me  from  my  sleep  ; 

Father,  I  own 

Thy  love  alone 
Thy  little  one  doth  keep. 

All  through  the  day, 

I  humbly  pray, 
Be  thou  my  Guard  and  Quid* 

My  sins  forgive, 

And  let  me  live, 
Blest  Jesus,  near  thy  side. 

O,  make  thy  rest 

Within  my  breast, 
Great  Spirit  of  all  grace  : 

Make  me  like  thee  ; 

Then  shall  I  be 
Prepared  to  see  thy  face. 


92         THE  CHILD  AT  THE  TOMB. 


THE   CHILD   AT  THE  TOMB. 

"  A  little  child, 
That  lightly  Iraws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb  — 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ?  " 

I  met  one  morning  a  little  girl  with  a  half-play- 
ful countenance,  beaming  blue  eyes,  and  sunny 
locks,  bearing  in  one  hand  a  small  cup  of  china, 
and  in  the  other  a  wreath  of  flowers.  Feeling  a 
very  natural  curiosity  to  know  what  she  could 
do  with  these  bright  things  in  a  place  that  seemed 
to  partake  so  much  of  sadness,  I  watched  her 
light  motions.  Reaching  a  retired  grave  covered 
with  a  plain  marble  slab,  she  emptied  the  seed, 
which  it  appeared  the  cup  contained,  in  the  slight 
cavities  which  had  been  scooped  out  in  the  cor- 
ners of  the  level  tablet,  and  laid  the  wreath  on 
its  pure  surface. 

"  And  why,"  I  inquired,  "  my  sweet-  little  girl, 
do  you  put  seed  in  those  little  bowls  there  ?  " 

"  It  is  to  bring  the  birds  here/'  she  replied, 
with  a  half- wonder  ing  look  ;  "  they  will  light  on 


THE  CHILD  AT  THE  TOMB.          93 

this  tree,  when  they  have  eaten  the  seed,  and 
sing." 

"  To  whom  do  they  sing  —  to  you,  or  to  each 
other  ?  " 

"  0,  no,"  she  replied  ;  "  to  my  sister ;  she  sleeps 
here." 

"  But  your  sister  is  dead." 

"  0,  yes  ;  but  if  she  hears  the  birds  sing " 

"  Well,  if  she  does  hear  the  birds  sing,  she  can- 
not see  that  wreath  of  flowers." 

"  She  knows  I  put  it  there.  I  told  her,  before 
they  took  her  away  from  our  house,  I  would  come 
and  see  her  every  morning." 

"  You  must,"  I  continued,  "  have  loved  that 
sister  very  much  ;  but  you  will  never  talk  with 
her  any  more  —  never  see  her  again." 

"  0,  yes,"  she  replied,  with  a  brightened  look  ; 
"  I  shall  see  her  in  heaven." 

"  But  she  has  gone  to  heaven  already,  I  trust." 

"  No .;  she  stops  under  this  tree  till  they  bring 
me  here,  and  then  we  are  going  to  heaven  to- 
gether."—  Travels  in  the  East. 


94  JESUS    OUR    EXAMPLE. 


JESUS    OUR    EXAMPLE 

There's  an  example  sacred,  bright, 
That  ever  should  be  in  your  sight ; 
A  character  all  holiness, 
That  you  should  reverence,  love,  and  bless 
Study  this  picture  every  day, 
And  to  be  like  it  always  pray.; 
'For  Jesus  came  that  we  might  be 
Like  unto  him  in  purity. 

Fresh  Flowers 


ANGRY    WORDS. 

Poison-drops  of  care  and  sorrow, 

Bitter  poison-drops  are  they 
Weaving  for  the  corning  morrow 

Sad  memorials  of  to-day. 
Angry  words  —  O,  let  them  never 

From  the  tongue  unbridled  slip  ; 
May  the  heart's  best  impulse  ever 

Check  them  ere  they  soil  the  lip. 

E.  Coos. 


PROMISES.  95 


PROMISES. 

Promist  No.  1. — The  Lord  will  not  forsake 
them  that  seek  him.  He  forgetteth  not  the  prayer 
of  the  humble. 

Promise  No.  2. —  Wait  on  the  Lord;  be  of 
good  courage,  and  he  shall  strengthen  thine  heart 

Promise  No.  3.  —  The  eyes  of  the  Lord  are  upon 
the  righteous,  and  his  ears  are  open  unto  their  cry, 

Promise  No.  4.  —  They  that  seek  the  Lord  shall 
not  want  any  good  thing. 

5.  "  Light  is  sown  for  the  righteous,  and  glad- 
ness for  tire  upright  in  heart." 

6.  "  The  Lord  executeth  righteousness  and  judg- 
ment for  all  that  are  oppressed." 

7.  "  Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children,  so  the 
Lord  pitieth  them  that  fear  him." 


96  NOTHING    IS    LOST. 


NOTHING  IS  LOST. 

Nothing  is  lost ;  the  drop  of  dew 

Which  trembles  on  the  leaf  or  flower, 
Is  but  exhaled,  to  fall  anew 

In  summer's  thunder  shower; 
Perchance  to  shine  within  the  bow 

That  fronts  the  sun  at  fall  of  day; 
Perchance  to  sparkle  in  the  flow 

Of  fountain  far  away. 

Nothing  is  lost ;  the  tiniest  seed 

By  wild  birds  borne,  or  breezes  blown 
Finds  something  suited  to  its  need, 

Wherein  'tis  sown  and  grown. 
The  language  of  some  household  song, 

The  perfume  of  some  cherished  flower, 
Though  gone  from  outward  sense,  belong 

To  memory's  after  hour. 

So  with  our  words  ;  or  harsh,  or  kind, 

Uttered  they  are  not  all  forgot ; 
They  leave  their  influence  on  the  mind, 

Pass  on,  but  perish  not ! 
So  with  our  deeds,  for  good  or  ill, 

They  have  their  power  scarce  understood ; 
Then  let  us  use  )ur  better  will 

To  make  them  rife  with  good. 

O.  H. 


FIGHTING  IN   LOVE.        '  97 


FIGHTING  IN  LOVE. 

Early  one  bright  morning,  I  walked  on  Bos« 
ton  Common,  with  a  troop  of  little  children. 
After  a  while,  we  all  collected  under  the  royal 
old  elm  tree.  That  majestic  elm  is  like  the  king 
of  Boston  Common  ;  and  in  summer,  when  he  is 
arrayed  in  his  verdant  glory,  the  children  delight 
to  gather  together  under  his  branches. 

"  Children,"  said  I,  abruptly,  as  we  stood  to- 
gether in  a  group  under  the  elm,  "  did  you  ever 
hear  of  people  fighting  in  love  ?  " 

"  Fighting  in  love  1  No,"  said  Catharine ;  "no- 
body ever  heard  of  such  a  thing."  >• 

"  I  have  heard  of  persons  fighting  in  love  ;  and 
a  hard  fight  they  had,  too,"  said  I. 

"  I  suppose  they  did  not  shed  any  blood,  if  they 
fought  in  love,"  said  Rebecca. 

"  Yes,  they  did,"  said  I  ;  "  their  faces,  hands, 
and  jackets  were  covered  with  blood." 

"  Then  I  know  they  did  not  fight  in  love  "  said 
Rufus. 

"  How  do  you  know  it  ?  "  I  asked. 
7 


98  FIGHTING  IN  LOVE. 

"  Because,"  said  the  same  boy,  "  love  never 
makes  people  fight." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Did  you 
ever  try  to  fight  in  love  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  fought  at  all,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I 
know  I  could  not  fight  in  love." 

"  Why  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Because  I  do  not  feel  any  desire  to  fight  with 
those  I  love,"  said  he  ;  "I  never  want  to  hurt 
those  I  love." 

"  What !  not  to  keep  them  from  hurting  yea  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  No,"  said  he.  "  But  they  will  not  wish  to 
hurt  me,  if  I  love  them  ;  and  even  if  they  should, 
I  would  let  them  hurt  me,  rather  than  hurt  them." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  the  persons  to  whom  I  allude 
said  that  they  fought  in  love  !  " 

"  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it,  although  they 
did  say  so,"  said  Catharine.  "  Fighting  in  love  ! 
only  think  of  it !  I  could  not  believe  it,  if  all 
the  world  should  say  so." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  you  shall  hear  my  story  ;  and 
then  let  us  hear  what  you  will  say. 

"  Nathan  and  Frederick  lived  in  Massachusetts. 


FIGHTING   IN   LOVE.  99 

Nathan's  father,  one  afternoon,  was  sitting  in  his 
front  room,  with  the  windows  open,  looking  up 
the  street,  and  watching  for  his  son  to  come  home 
from  school.  Nathan  soon  came  down  the  street, 
walking  slowly,  wHb.  his  hand  to  his  face,  as  if 
nothing  was  the  matter.  He  drew  near,  and  his 
father  saw  that  his  face,  hands,  and  jacket  were 
covered  with  blood.  He  ran  to  the  door,  and 
met  him. 

"  '  What  is  the  matter,  Nathan  ?  '  said  the 
alarmed  father. 

"  '  I  have  been  fighting,'  said  he. 

"  His  father  took  him  into  the  house,  wiped  off 
the  blood,  and  stanched  it.  He  then  began,  to 
talk  to  Nathan. 

"  '  With  whom  did  you  fight  ?  '  he  asked. 

"  '  With  Frederick,'  said  he. 

"  '  What  made  you  fight  with  him  ?  '  asked  his 
father. 

"  '  He  struck  me  first,'  said  Nathan. 

"  '  Do  you  hate  Frederick  ?  '  asked  his  father. 

"  '  No,  father,'  said  he. 

"  '  Does  Frederick  hate  you  ? ' 

"  '  No,  father,'  said  he,  '  I  don't  think  he  does.' 

"  '  Your  sad  appearance  looks  as  if  the  person 


100  FIGHTING   IN  LOVE. 

with  whom  you  fought  hated  you.     Would  you 
like  to  have  Frederick  punished  for  striking  you?' 

"  '  No,  sir/  said  Nathan. 

"  '  Would  Frederick  like  to  have  you  punished 
for  striking  him  ? '  • 

"  '  No,  sir/  answered  Nathan. 

"  '  Well,  my  son/  said  his  father, '  this  has  been 
a  strange  quarrel.  You  say  that  neither  of  you 
hates  the  other,  or  wants  to  have  him  punished. 
Do  you  love  Frederick  ? ' 

" '  Yes/  said  he,  after  a  little  hesitation. 

"  '  Does  Frederick  love  you  ?  '  asked  his  father. 

"  '  Yes,  sir/  faintly  murmured  Nathan. 

" '  What  on  earth  then  did  you  fight  for  ? ' 
asked  his  father,  in  real  astonishment,  not  know- 
ing what  to  make  of  this  strange  affair. 

"  Nathan  hesitatingly  answered,  '  We  fought  be- 
cause —  because  —  we  —  we  loved  each  other  ! ' 

jf 

"  There,  children  !  "  said  I,  when  I  had  finished 
the  story,  "  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  Cannot 
children  fight  in  love  ?  " 

They  all  laughed  heartily  at  the  idea. 

"What  did  Nathan's  father  say?"  asked  a 
sweet-tempered  little  boy,  named  Lucius. 


FIGHTING   IN   LOVE.  101 

"  It  was  too  much  for  his  gravity,"  said  I. 
"  The  idea  of  two  boys,  with  flashing  eyes  and 
angry  faces,  beating  and  striking,  and  giving  each 
other  black  eyes  and  bloody  noses,  all  in  love  and 
gentle  affection,  was  more  than  he  could  think 
of  without  laughing  heartily." 

"  No  wonder,"  said  Rebecca  ;  "  it  is  enough  to 
make  any  body  laugh." 

"  So  it  seems  to  me,"  said  I.    "  It  is  an  insult 
to  common  sense  to  say  that  children  or  men  can 
,  fight  in  love.    But  if  love  cannot  make  you  fight, 
what  can  ?  " 

"  Hatred  and  revenge"  said  Catharine. 

"  I  believe  it,"  said  I.  "  Since,  then,  we  are 
bound  to  love  our  enemies,  and  since  we  cannot 
fight  with  them  if  we  love  them,  what  shall  we 
do?" 

"  Not  fight  with  them  at  all,"  said  the  children. 

"  What ! "  said  I ;  "  not  when  they  attack  us  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  all. 

"  What  shall  we  then  do  to  them  when  they 
attack  us  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  We  shall  leave  them  to  God,  as  Jesus  did  his 
enemies,  and  pray  that  he  would  forgive  them," 
answered  Rebecca. 


102  FIGHTING   IN   LOVE. 

"  True,  dear  children,"  said  I ;  "  thus  did  Jesus, 
and  thus  ought  we  to  do ;  for  it  is  very  certain 
that  neither  children  nor  men  can  fight  in  love." 
—  A  Kiss  for  a  Blow. 


NOTE.  —  The  reader  will  notice  that  we  have  frequently 
inserted  short  paragraphs,  laconics,  mottoes,  &c.,  with  the  em- 
phatic words  Italicized.  These  pieces  are  intended  for  reading 
and  declamatory  exercises.  They  will  require  some  study,  and 
can  be  made  very  useful  in  the  school  room.  It  is  a  good 
exercise  for  the  scholars  to  commit  them  to  memory,  and  rise 
and  declaim  them. 

GOOD  AND  EVIL. 

If  good  —  we  plant  not,  vice  —  will  fill  the  place, 
And  rankest  weeds  —  the  richest  soil  —  deface. 
But  the  good  man,  whose  soul  is  pure, 
Unspotted  and  of  pardon  —  sure, 
Looks  through  the  darkness  of  the  gloomy  night, 
And  sees  the  dawning  —  of  a  glorious  light . 


TRUE  RELIGION. 

True  religion  — 
Is  always  mild,  propitious,  and  humane, 

Plays  not  the  tyrant,  plants  no  faith  in  blood  ; 
But  stoops  to  succor,  polish,  and  redress, 

And  builds  her  grandeur  —  on  the  public  good. 


THE  SPRING'S  RETURN.  103 


THE  SPRING'S  RETURN. 


I  come  !  from  the  bosom  of  yon  dropping  cloud 
I  come,  while  music  wakes  all  around.  Winter 
passes  off.  Far  to  the  north  he  goes,  and  calls 
along  his  ruffian  blasts.  His  blasts  obey,  and 
quit  the  howling  hill,  the  shattered  forest,  and 
the  ravaged  vale.  My  sweeter  gales  succeed,  at 
whose  kind  touch  dissolving  snows  are  lost  in 
livid  torrents.  Mountain,  hill,  and  plain  are  now 
with  verdure  crowned.  No  more  our  atmosphere, 
is  cramped  with  cold,  but,  full  of  life,  it  lifts  the 
light  clouds  up  on  high,  and  spreads  them,  thin 
and  white,  o'er  all  surrounding  heaven. 


104  MY   HOME. 


MY  HOME. 

My  home  ?  'tis  where  wild  valleys  bloont, 

And  endless  springs  adorn  ; 
There  is  no  night,  or  death,  or  gloom, 

Where  this  blithe  heart  was  born. 

The  stars,  the  moon,  the  sky,  the  earth, 
Yon  sun's  transcendent  flame, 

First  drew  their  far  immortal  birth 
Whence  my  free  spirit  came. 

Then  home,  O,  home !  my  bargeman,  ply 
Thy  shadowy  helm  and  wing ; 

Vain  shall  thy  spectred  terrors  try 
This  steadfast  heart  to  wring. 

In  rain  shall  earthly  storms  assay 

Thy  deathless  faith  to  quell, 
Or  thy  free  heavenward  step  to  stay, 

My  soul,  that  trusteth  well ! 

E'en  boatman,  thou,  grim  shadowy  speck. 

That  mockest  now  at  me, 
Eternity  thy  bark  shall  wreck, 

And  drink  thy  greedy  sea. 

Oblivion's  'whelming  flood  shall  drench 

Creation  far  and  near; 
But  time,  nor  gloom,  nor  death,  can  quench 

My  soul,  that  dwells  not  here ! 


HOME.  105 


HOME. 

Home,  is  where  affections  bind 

Gentle  hearts  in  unison ; 
Where  the  voices  all  are  kind, 

Holding  sweet  communion ! 

Home,  is  where  the  heart  can  rest, 

Safe  from  darkening  sorrow ; 
Where  the  friends  we  love  the  best 

Brighten  every  morrow ! 

Home,  is  where  the  friends  that  love 

To  our  hearts  are  given ; 
Where  the  blessings  from  above 

Make  it  seem  a  Heaven ! 

Home  is  where  congenial  hearts 

All  are  kindly  blended  ; 
Where  no  treasure  e'er  departs, 

And  no  sweets  are  ended ! 

Home  is  where  the  stars  will  shine 

In  the  skies  above  us ; 
Peeping  brightly  through  the  vine, 

Trained  by  those  who  love  us ! 

Yes !  'tis  home,  where  smiles  of  cheer 
Wreathe  the  brows  that  greet  us ; 

And  the  one  of  all  most  dear 
Ever  comes  to  meet  us  I 

ALBERTA. 


106  WAR. 

WAR. 

[  Uncle  James,  William,  John,  and  Lucy.] 

William.  Uncle  James,  was  it  really  a  glory  for 
our  f9refathers  to  kill  the  poor  Indians  ? 

John.  And  to  come  over  on  purpose  to  rob 
them,  and  to  burn  their  villages  ? 

Uncle  James.  Well,  Willie,  /  do  not  think  so  ; 
but  there  are  hundreds  of  people  even  now  who 
call  such  actions  "  glory." 

William.  But  if  a  boy  in  our  school  knew  more 
about  fighting  than  any  of  the  others,  and  then 
would  always  be  "  knocking  them  about,"  because 
they  had  not  learned  how  to  fight,  we  should  call 
him  a  coward. 

John.  And  if  he  fought  the  others  on  purpose 
to  take  away  all  that  he  had  ? 
m  William.   Then  we  should  call  him  a  sneak  — 
not  a  conqueror. 

John.  Or,  Uncle  James,  you  know  that  we 
have,  each  of  us,  a  little  garden.  Now,  if  Willie, 
because  he  is  the  strongest,  were  to  kill  Lucy  and 
me,  on  purpose  to  take  our  gardens  away  from 
us? 


WAR.  107 

William.    0,  how  can  you  talk  so,  John! 

John.   But  I  only  say,  if  you  should  do  so. 

William.    Well,  I  should  be  hanged,  of  course. 

John.  Then  why  do  not  the  government  hang 
those  armies  who  go  to  kill  other  nations  on  pur- 
pose to  take  away  their  land? 

William.  Why,  you  forget.  The  government 
send  their  soldiers,  so  the  people  of  the  govern- 
ment would  have  to  punish  themselves. 

Lucy.  I  think  that  nations  kill  each  other,  be- 
cause they  are  heathens;  only  such  nations  as 
have  not  learned  about  God  and  Jesus  Christ 
would  do  such  things. 

William.  But  the  English  and  Americans  are 
not  heathens,  they  are  Christians,  and  have  mur- 
dered natives  in  America,  Africa,  Australia,  and 
India,  on  purpose  to  get  their  lands. 

Uncle  James.  That  is  true,  Willie ;  but  we  must 
not  say  they  murdered  them.  People  call  this 
"  murder  "  —  when  one  man  goes  up  to  another, 
and  kills  him  ;  but  when  one  nation  of  men  march 
to  another  to  kill  them,  that  is  called  "  war." 

Lucy.  And  the  men  are  not  called  "  murderers" 
—  they  are  called  "warriors." 

John.   How  curious,  that  the  men  should  be 


108  WAR. 

called  by  a  different  name,  because  they  all  happen 
to  be  together  —  by  the  side  of  each  other  — 
when  they  are  killing !  Suppose  a  man  was  sixty 
yards  away  from  the  others,  and  was  to  kill  one 
of  his  enemies,  would  he  be  a  warrior,  or  a  mur- 
derer ? 

William.  That  would  depend  upon  which  name 
he  liked  best.  You  may  call  the  action  what 
you  please ;  but  I  think  that  the  thing  which  is 
done —  I  mean  the  killing  —  is  just  the  same. 
There  are  not  two  killings  —  and  there  is  no  dif- 
ference in  the  thing  itself,  because  it  is  done  by 
several  people. 

John.  So  I  think !  To  kill  a  man  means  "  to 
make  him  die  ; "  and  unless  there  is  any  other  kil- 
ling, it  is  the  same,  whether  it  be  done  by  a  man 
or  a  nation. 

Unck  James.  Well,  John,  that  is  quite  true  ;  it 
is  just  what  any  boy's  common  sense  will  teach 
him.  Christian  people  are  now  beginning  to  be- 
lieve that  it  is  wrong  to  make  wars,  or  to  call 
them  "  glory." 

Lucy.  Are  they  only  beginning  to  believe,  Unclo 
James  ?  How  strange ! 

Unck  James.  But  there  are  some  who  say  that, 
as  there  are  always  wicked  people  in  the  world 


WAK.  109 

who  will  rob  and  steal,  if  you  let  them,  we  ought 
to  have  soldiers  to  defend  us. 

William.  But,  Uncle  James,  could  not  you  teach 
these  people  better  ?  couldn't  you  prevent  them 
from  fighting  or  stealing,  by  being  kind  to  them  ? 

Uncle  James.  There  are  many  people  now,  Wil- 
lie, who  think  that  we  could.  You  know  there 
has  been  only  one  Teacher  in  the  world  whose 
words  we  can  be  sure  are  quite  right. 

Lucy.   Yes,  that  is  Jesus  Christ. 

Uncle  James.  Jesus  Christ,  then,  wrote  a  law  to 
show  us  how  to  live  without  fighting.  It  is  writ- 
ten —  "  Whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  unto 
you,  do  ye  even  so  unto  them."  But  that  is  a  very 
hard  law  to  keep.  There  is  no  doubt  at  all  that 
men  would  leave  off  fighting,  if  they  all  knew  the 
law,  and  had  hearts  good  enough  to  keep  it. 

John.  Then,  of  course,  we  ought  to  teach  that 
law  to  one  another  as  fast  as  we  can. 

Lucy.  And  so  ought  all  the  English  and  Amer- 
ican people,  because  it  is  Christ's  law,  and  the 
English  and  Americans  are  Christians. 

Uncle  James.  This  is  one  of  Jesus  Christ's  great 
laws,  and  no  one  can  teach  it  until  he  has  karned 
it.  God  will  teach  all  of  you,  if  you  ask  him. 


110  WAR. 

John.  Then,  I  am  sure,  I  will  ask  him.  I  be- 
lieve it  is  wicked  to  fight ;  I  think  there  ought 
not  to  be  any  soldiers  made  on  purpose.  I  will 

never  be  a  soldier ! 

• 

William.   Nor  If 

Lucy.  Nor  I,  to  fight  with  sword  and  spear  in 
the  armies  that  kill ;  for  woman's  mission  is  not 
to  fight  with  such  weapons.  But  I  will  be  a  sol- 
dier in  that  blessed  army,  whose  banner  is  righte- 
ousness and  truth,  and  whose  leader  is  called  the 
Captain  of  our  Salvation. 

Uncle  James.  Yes,  Lucy,  that  is  your  mission ; 
and  it  should  be  the  mission  of  us  all.  There  is 
nothing  stronger  than  truth.  All  the  armies  in 
the  world  arrayed  against  it  cannot  overcome  it. 
Let  us  each,  then,  embalm  this  motto  on  our 
hearts,  "  Truth  is  mighty,  and  will  prevail." 


Go  to  the  bee  !  and  thence  bring  home 
(Worth  all  the  treasures  of  her  comb) 

An  antidote  against  rash  strife  ; 
She,  when  her  angry  flight  she  -wings, 
But  once,  and  at  her  peril,  stings  ; 

But  gathers  honey  —  all  her  life. 

BISHOP. 


THE  LITTLE   GARDEN.  HI 


THE  LITTLE  GARDEN. 

Well  I  know  a  little  garden, 

Circled  in  by  ruby  walls, 
Having  for  its  high-born  tenant 

Primal  heir  of  Aidenn  halls  ; 
And  it  waiteth  for  the  sunshine, 

Waiteth  for  the  dew  and  rain, 
rhat  it  may  be  green  and  fruitful, 

And  reward  the  laborer's  pain, 

Filling  up  its  secret  fountain  — 

Crystal  mirror  of  its  worth  — 
Till  it  overflows  with  blessings 

For  the  supplicating  earth. 
And  it  waiteth  all  the  spring  time 

For  the  good  seed  to  be  sown, 
Hidden  germ  of  future  harvests, 

For  an  unseen  gamer  grown. 

Yet,  without  a  constant  watching, 

And  the  tenant's  earnest  care, 
Weeds  will  spring  and  blight  his  prospects, 

Poisoning  all  the  garden  ah 
Till  the  Eden-tinted  blossoms 

That  might  grow  in  beauty  there, 
Find  no  place  to  gather  greenness, 

And  put  up  their  incense-prayer. 


112  THE   LITTLE   GARDEN. 

And  the  streams  that  go  to  water 

Lands  beyond  the  garden  walls, 
Grow  unclean,  and  cease  to  gladden 

Where  their  willing  offering  falls  ; 
Till  we  wait,  in  vain  for  blessings, 

Wait  in  vain  for  fruits  and  flowers, 
Sad  to  see  so  fair  a  garden  — 

Thorn-grown  in  a  world  like  ours. 

Pilgrim,  to  the  unknown  hastening, 

Made  almost  an  angel  here, 
Thou  hast  such  a  little  garden, 

And  the  harvest  draweth  near  .' 
Give  it,  then,  thy  constant  labor, 

Stock  thy  HEART  with  Heaven's  own  flowers, 
That  it  bear  thee  fruits  of  Eden 

In  a  better  world  than  ours. 

LILLIAN. 


THUNDER  STORM  ON  THE  ALPS. 

Far  along, 

From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 
Leaps  the  live  thunder  !  not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  —  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  —  answers  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud. 


COCOA.  113 

COCOA. 

[jJda,  Willie,  Lucy,  Ion,  and  their  Mother.] 

Mother.  Can  you  tell  me,  children,  what  cocoa 
is? 

Ion.  I  have  read,  mamma,  that  it  is  the  seed  of 
a  tree,  but  I  don't  know  where  it  grows. 

M.  You  know  where  South  America  is.  Yoa 
had  better  fetch  the  map,  I  think  ;  then  we  shall 
see  its  place  more  clearly.  If  you  were  to  go 
there,  particularly  in  those  parts  which  belong  to 
the  Spaniards,  you  would  see  some  large  cocoa 
plantations. 

Jida.   What«are  "  plantations,"  mamma  ? 

M.  A  plantation  means  a  place  where  trees 
are  planted.  Tell  me  some  trees  that  grow  in 
plantations. 

L.  Coffee  grows  in  plantations,  mamma  —  they 
plant  the  coffee-trees.  The  sugar-canes  and  tea- 
trees,  too,  are  planted. 

W.  Corn  is  not  grown  in  plantations,  but  in 
the  fields. 

Ion.  Apples  and  other  fruits  are  grown  in 
orchards  ;  but  the  vegetables  we  have  for  dinner, 
8 


114  COCOA. 

most  of  those  are  grown  in  gardens,  kitchen-gar 
dens,  by  the  market-gardener  —  so  that 

Vegetables  and  flowers  grow  in  gardens. 

Most  fruits  grow  in  orchards. 

Corn  and  oats  grow  in  fields. 

Coffee,  tea,  sugar,  and  cocoa  grow  -in  planta- 
tions. 

M.  Cocoa  plantations  are  found  not  only  in 
South  America,  but  in  the  "West  Indies.  In  one 
of  the  West  India  islands,  called  GRENADA,  the 
plantations  are  pleasantly  situated  amongst  the 
mountains.  Thus,  there  is  always  cool  shade  for 
the  negroes  to  work  in. 

The  trees,  which  are  twenty  feet  high,  about 
four  times  as  tall  as  papa,  are  arranged  in  rows, 
forming  what  are  called  "  cocoa  walks."  Whan 
the  young  leaves  come  out  they  are  of  a  pale  red 
color,  and  as  they  get  older  they  become  green. 
Then  you  will  see  numbers  of  small  flowers  spring- 
ing from  the  thick  branches  of  the  trees  —  they 
are  of  a  light  red  color,  mixed  with  yellow. 

When  the  flowers  have  dropped  off,  they  are 
followed  by  small  pods  of  an  oval  shape,  like  an 
egg.  These  pods,  when  they  have  grown  to  their 
full  size,  and  are  green,  are  very  nice.  They  con- 


COCOA.  115 

tain  the  unripe  seeds,  and  a  beautiful  white  pulp> 
which  is  sweet  and  cooling  to  the  taste.  Very 
often  the  poor  blackamoor  travellers,  when  they 
feel  hot  and  weary,  stop  to  pick  a  few  pods,  and 
refresh  themselves  by  eating  their  pulp.  So  ex- 
cellent and  good  is  this  pulp,  that  the  great  bot- 
anist, Linnaeus,  gave  to  the  cocoa-tree  a  name 
which  means  "  food  for  a  god." 

These  trees  were  so  valuable  at  one  time,  that 
in  a  West  India  island  called  Trinidad,  when 
people  were  so  foolish  and  wicked  as  to  keep 
slaves,  there  was  a  law*,  that  if  a  slave  planted 
one  thousand  cocoa-trees,  and  could  make  them 
all  bear  fruit,  he  could  claim  his  liberty  from  his 
master  —  or  his  manumission,  as  it  was  called.  I 
have  heard,  too,  that  the  cocoa  seeds  were,  a  long 
time  ago,  used  as  money  in  America. 

I  can  tell  you  another  curious  thing  about  this 
tree,  although  I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  it  is 
correct.  It  is  said,  that  in  order  for  it  to  grow 
well,  it  must  be  under  the  shade  of  the  coral-tree, 
a  tree  with  fine  bright  scarlet  blossoms.  The 
Spaniards,  I  know,  call  the  coral-tree  "  the  mother 
of  the  cocoa." 

When  the  pods  on  the  cocoa-tree  have  turned 


116  COCOA. 

yellow,  or  a  brownish  red  color,  they  are  ready 
for  picking.  This  is  done  twice  a-year  —  in 
December  and  June. 

On  opening  one  of  these  pods,  you  would  see 
three  rows  of  long  seeds,  lying  parallel  to  each 
other,  and  close  together  —  as  closely  as  peas  are 
packed  in  their  pods.  You  may  remember  the 
history  of  coffee,  and  the  way  in  which  the  ne- 
groes prepare  it.  They  have  almost  the  same 
plan  in  preparing  the  cocoa.  The  pods  are  dried 
in  the  sun,  or  in  hot  clay,  until  the  husks  are 
crisp,  and  can  easily  be  broken  off. 

If  the  seeds,  which  are  called  "  nibs,"  are  to  be 
made  into  cocoa,  they  are  ground  into  a  powder  ; 
but,  if  they  are  to  be  made  into  chocolate,  they  are 
formed  into  a  thick  paste. 

L.   Where  is  the  cocoa  sent  to,  mamma  ? 

M.  Some  is  exported  to  England  ;  some  to 
France.  The  French  make  many  different  drinks 
from  it ;  but  the  largest  quantity  is  consumed  in 
Spain.  The  Spaniards  have  always  been  famous 
for  eating  as  well  as  drinking  chocolate.  I  have 
brought  you,  from  the  grocer's,  two  or  three  of 
the  seeds,  or  rather  the  cocoa  nibs.  Which  of 
you  would  like  to  examine  one,  and  give  me  its 
description  ? 


COCOA.  117 

L.  I  should,  mamma,  if  1  may.  I  notice,  1st 
That  it  is  of  a  long,  oval  shape.  2nd.  It  has  a 
rich  deep  brown  color.  3rd.  —  Thirdly 

W.  I'll  give  you  a  "  thirdly "  —feel  it!  — it 
feels  rather  oily  and  greasy. 

Ion.  Just  try  and  break  it,  Lucy,  and  see  if  it 
is  brittle. 

L.  It  does  break  easily,  but  not  -with  very 
sharp  edges,  like  a  brittle  substance. 

Ion.  Yet  it  is  not  friable,  because  it  does  not 
crumbk. 

L.  These  pieces  are  not  crumbs,  certainly. 
No,  the  proper,  word  to  use  is  "crisp" — it  is 
crisp. 

W.  Let  me  taste  it,  Lucy,  please.  Well,  I 
should  call  such  a  taste  peculiar.  It  has  not  a 
saline  flavor,  not  a  Utter  flavor,  not  a  sour  flavor, 
not  a  sweet  flavor.  Its  taste  is  oily,  rather  bitter, 
rather  sweet,  and  it  has  an  aromatic  flavor  —  all 
four  flavors  mixed  together.  We  had  better  say 
that  it  has  a  rich  taste. 

Ion.  And  it  has  a  smell  —  so  it  is  odorous. 
Then  we  will  say  that  it  is  of  a  long  oval  shape, 
reddish  brown  color,  oily,  crisp,  odorous,  and  with 
a  rich  taste. 


118  COCOA. 

M.  You  have  done  well,  Ion.  Now,  will  you 
give  us  an  abstract  of  our  dialogue,  so  that  your 
brothers  and  sister  will  remember  what  we  learned 
to-day  ? 

Ion.  Cocoa  nibs  are  the  seed  of  a  tree  growing 
in  South  America  and  the  West  Indies,  where  the 
sugar  and  coffee  grow.  They  are  of  a  long,  oval 
shape,  reddish  brown  color,  oily,  crisp,  odorous, 
and  with  a  rich  taste. 

The  trees  are  cultivated  in  plantations,  where 
they  form  long  rows  called  cocoa  walks. 

The  pods  which  contain  the  seeds  are  nearly 
of  an  oval -shape.  When  they  are  green,  they 
contain  not  only  the  unripe  seeds,  but  a  pulp  which 
is  so  sweet  and  refreshing  that  it  is  of  great  ser- 
vice to  travellers,  and  has  been  called  "  the  food 
for  a  god." 

These  seed  pods,  when  ripe,  are  picked,  pre- 
pared almost  in  the  same  way  as  the  coffee-ber- 
ries, and  exported  to  other  countries. 


PATIENCE.  119 


THE  PROMISES. 

1.  Blessed  is  he  that  considereth  the  poor  ;  the 
Lord  will  deliver  him  in  time  of  trouble. 

2.  Blessed  is  the  man  unto  whom  the  Lord 
imputeth  not  iniquity,  and  in  whose  spirit  there 
is  no  guile. 

3.  The  righteous  cry,  and  the  Lord  heareth, 
and  delivereth  them  out  of  all  their  troubles. 

4.  Blessed  are  the  undefiled  in  the  way,  who 
walk  in  the  law  of  the  Lord. 


PATIENCE. 

What  cannot  patience  do  ? 

A  great  design  —  is  seldom  matched  at  once  ; 

'Tis  patience  heaves  it  on 

From  savage  nature  ; 

'Tis  patience  that  has  built  up  human  life  ; 

The  nurse  of  arts ;  and  Rome  exalts  her  head, 

An  everlasting  monument  to  patience. 


120  HOME. 


HOME. 

Scarcely  in  our  English  language 

Can  be  found  a  word  more  sweet 
Than  the  one  our  childhood's  lispingf 

Learn  so  early  to  repeat ; 
From  the  humble,  toiling  peasant, 

To  the  queen  upon  her  throne, 
Not  a  heart  but  beats  responsive 

To  the  magic  spells  of  Home. 

Birthplace  of  the  soul's  affections ! 

Light  is  thy  unchanging  dower, 
As  the  light  is  to  the  sunbeam, 

And  sweet  odors  to  the  flower ; 
Love  unseen,  but  ever  present, 

Like  the  free,  unfettered  air, 
Unperceived  by  outward  vision, 

Yet  we  breath  it  everywhere. 

Home !  all  charms  around  thee  twining, 

Bind  us  to  the  sacred  spot ; 
Earliest  scene  of  fond  remembrance, 

And  the  last  to  be  forgot. 
Pole-star  of  the  wandering  stranger ! 

Whereso'er  his  footsteps  roam, 
Turns  his  heart,  with  strong  attraction, 

To  the  blessed  light  of  Home. 

P.  M. 


TKUTH.  121 

TRUTH  —THE  WATER-CRESS  MAN. 


[Edwards,  the  Water-cress  Man;  Willie,  Lucy,  Ion, 
and  their  Father.] 

Edwards.  Water  cree-e-e-e-e-e-e-ses.  Buy  my 
wat  — 

Willie.  0 1  There  goes  good  old  "  Graycoat," 
droning  along,  with  his  black  and  white  dog  be- 
hind him!  He  has  stopped  at  No.  4,  over  the 
way.  See !  his  basket  is  quite  empty  ;  there  is 
nothing  left  but  the  cloth. 

Ion.  Yes;  I  often  meet  him  as  I  come  home 
from  school,  and  his  basket  is  nearly  always 
empty.  I  wonder  how  he  sells  his  cresses  so  fast. 

Papa.  I  can  tell  you.  He  owes  it  all  to 
"Truth."  But  he  shall  tell  you  himself.  You 
know  he  lives  in  one  of  my  cottages.  I  am  going 
this  evening  to  see  him,  for  he  wants  me  to  let 
him  a  piece  of  the  field  at  the  bottom  of  his  gar- 
den, and  you  shall  go  with  me. 

W.  Then  we  will  go  and  change  our  shoes 
before  tea,  and  get  our  best  hats.  *  *  * 


122  TRUTH. 

Ion.  Papa,  is  that  the  old  jnan's  cottage  ? 
There  is  a  pretty  laburnum  tree. 

P.  Yes.  We  will  go  in.  Good  evening,  Ed- 
wards. I  have  brought  my  two  sons  and  my 
daughter  with  me,  that  they  may  see  your  garden. 
I  want  you,  too,  to  tell  them  how  it  is  you  are 
getting  on  so  well. 

E.  Yes,  sir,  that  I  will.  Sit  down,  young  mas- 
ter. What  is  your  name,  pray  ? 

W.  I  am  called  Willie,  my  sister's  name  ia 
Lucy,  and  this  boy  is  my  brother  Ion. 

E.  Well,  Master  Willie,  if  you  had  come  to 
my  cottage  two  years  ago,  it  was  not  such  a  place 
as  it  is  now  ;  we  were  very  poor  people.  I  have 
had  four  sons.  One  of  them  is  a  soldier ;  another 
has  gone  to  Canada.  The  eldest  one,  who  lives 
next  door,  is  a  bricklayer.  He  earns  twenty-five 
shillings  per  week,  but  he  has  seven  children. 
My  youngest  son,  poor  boy  I  was' working  at  yon- 
der railway  bridge,  when  one  of  the  arches  fell 
in,  and  he  was  killed  ;  so  none  of  my  sons  can 
help  me. 

My  good  dame,  who  is  sitting  on  that  low  chair, 
(she  cannot  hear  that  we  are  talking  about  her,) 
used  to  earn  one  shilling  and  sixpence  a  week 


TRUTH.  128 

at  making  straw-plait,  but_  now  she  cannot  see 
even  with  her  spectacles  ;  and  my  daughter,  who 
is  walking  up  and  down  the  garden  in  such  a 
hurry,  she,  poor  thing,  is  silly.  So  I  have  no  oneF 
to  help  me  ;  and,  although  I  am  sixty-seven  years 
old,  I  have  to  help  myself. 

O,  it  was  hard  work  once  !  I  remember,  after 
my  son  died,  the  d^jr  when  we  had  only  two  pence 
halfpenny  in  the  house,  and  I  went  to  the  pawn- 
broker and  pawned  my  dame's  wedding  ring  to 
get  some  money  to  buy  water-cresses. 

"  Go  on,  father ! "  said  my  eldest  son,  (who  came 
in  early  next  morning  to  start  me.)  "  I'll  lend  you 
this  old  basket :  let  me  fasten  the  strap  round 
your  shoulder  !  There,  put  in  the  cresses,  and  lay 
the  white  cloth  over  them.  Good  by!  Now, 
make  the  people  buy  them.  Sing  out,  '  Water- 
cresses  ! '  louder  than  you  can !  Let  me  hear 
you  begin." 

So,  whilst  other  folk  we're  asleep,  I  set  off  in 
the  damp  air,  —  through  the  churchyard  —  past 
the  Almshouses  —  down  West  Street,  past  the 
market-place  and  the  railway,  until  I  reached  the 
bridge,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  High  Street,  when 
I  came  up  the  long  hill. 


L24  TRUTH. 

Every  where  I  cried,  "  Water-cresses !  "  as  loud 
as  my  shaky  old  voice  would  letTne.  They  were 
fine  cresses ;  so  I  told  every  one  that  they  were 
very  fresh,  and  that  they  were  the  best  in  the  town. 
I  sold  a  great  many,  and  in  the  evening  I  sold 
those  which  were  left.  Every  day  I  worked  hard. 
I  never  stopped  for  the  rainy  weather,  or  wind, 
but  went  on,  singing  out  lofldly,  "  Fine  water- 
cresses  !  "  "  Fine  young  *  water-cresses  !  "  and 
told  every  body  again  that  they  were  the  finest  in 
the  town. 

Still  I  did  not  earn  enough  money  to  buy  us 
bread.  I  could  never  sell  two  baskets  full  in  a 
day,  but  had  to  sell  in  the  afternoon  what  I  had 
left  from  the  morning.  So  we  often  had  potatoes 
out  of  the  garden,  and  salt,  for  dinner ;  and  tea- 
leaves  and  bread  for  tea.  I  had  to  sell  both  our 
chickens,  for  we  had  no  barley  to  feed  them  with. 

I  sold  our  eight-day  clock,  that  warming  pan, 
the  bedstead,  and  my  wheelbarrow.  And,  0 !  as 
the  autumn  came  on,  and  the  evenings  were  dark- 
er, it  was  very  cold  to  sit  here  on  the  stones 
with  a  small  fire  made  of  sticks  from  the  com- 
mon, and  a  greased  rush  for  a  candle. 

Then  we  would  go  to  bed  at  seven,  to  save  the 


TRUTH.  125 

rushlights  and  sticks,  and  would  think,  "  What 
shall  we  do  when  the  winter  comes  on,  and  the 
water-cresses  are  gone  ?  "  So,  when  the  quarter- 
day  came,  I  had  no  money  to  pay  your  father  his 
rent. 

Ion.  But  how  have  you  managed  to  make  such 
a  difference  in  two  years  and  a  half  ? 

E.  Ah,  young  master,  isn't  it  a  difference! 
Look  at  my  dame  ;  what  a  clean  white  cap  she 
has  now  —  we  bought  a  box-iron  second  hand. 
She  wears  her  stuff  frock  every  day.  I  have 
bought  back  my  eight-day  clock  from  the  pawn- 
broker's, and  our  bedstead,  and  the  old  warming 
pan.  We  have  meat  for  dinner,  four  times  a  week. 
There  is  a  new  piece  of  oil-cloth  ;  and  0,  come 
and  see  the  garden.  Those  are  my  pigs — I  paid 
a  friend  of  my  son's  one  shilling  and  two  pence 
for  a  new  thatch  to  their  sty.  I  gave  four  pence 
for  this  old  dog,  and  can  afford  to  keep  him.  I 
am  going  to  buy  some  chickens,  for  I  have  thirty- 
seven  shillings  in  the  Savings  Bank  ;  and  I  have 
asked  your  papa  for^,  bit  of  the  field  at  the  back, 
for  my  son  and  I  to  grow  turnips. 

Ion.  Well,  but  how  did  you  get  the  money  for 
so  many  things  ? 


12b  TKUTH. 

E.  Only  by  speaking  the  exact  truth.  TRUTH 
has  bought  all  this  for  me  in  twc  years  and  a  half. 
It  was  a  very  little  thing  which  made  so  great  a 
difference.  I  left  off  selling  the  best  water-cresses, 
and  only  sold  good  ones  —  that  was  all. 

W.  I  don't  understand  that. 

E.  I  will  tell  you.  One  day,  your  mamma 
asked  me,  "Are  these  good  water-cresses,  Ed- 
wards ?  "  "  Yes,  ma'am,  the  finest  in  the  town" 
"But,  Edwards,"  she  said,  "they  cannot  always 
be  finer  than  any  one  else's.  They  are  good  water- 
cresses,  and  if  you  would  only  say  that  they  are 
good,  instead  of  saying  that  they  are  the  best, 
you  would  be  speaking  the  plain  truth.  Then, 
depend  upon  it,  you  would  sell  them  sooner." 

And,  do  you  know,  Master  William,  that  one 
word  which  your  mamma  gave  me  helped  me  to 
become  rich,  and  to  pay  your  papa  his  rent  ?  I 
thought,  as  I  went  through  the  street,  about  the 
plain  truth  —  and  about  being  careful  not  to  say 
more  than  the  truth.  So,  when  I  remembered  that 
my  water-cresses  were  those  \diich  were  left  from 
the  morning,  I  only  cried  out,  "  Water  cresses," 
and  left  out  the  word  "  fine." 

"  Are  these  water-cresses  fresh,  Edwards  ?  "  said 


TRUTH.  127 

the  landlady  at  the  "  Golden  Lion."  I  was  just 
going  to  say,  "  Yes,  ma'am,  very*'  wien  I  stopped, 
and  said,  "  No,  ma'am,  they  are  good,  but  they  were 
picked  this  morning." 

W.   And  did  sne  buy  them  ? 

E.  No,  I  lost  my  halfpenny  then  ;  but  I  felt 
that  I  had  spoken  the  plain  truth,  and  no  more. 
So  God,  who  looked  down  from  heaven  upon  me, 
was  pleased,  and  I  was  pleased,  more  than  if  I 
had  had  the  halfpenny. 

W.  But  you  don't  think  that  God  takes  notice 
of  such  a  little  thing  as  selling  water-cresses  ? 

E.  Ah,  indeed!  To  be  sure  he  does.  Did 
not  God  make  the  water-cresses  ?  TRUTH  is  just 
the  same,  if  you  are  selling  any  thing  for  a  half- 
penny or  for  a  thousand  pounds.  A  thousand 
pounds  is  not  greater  than  a  halfpenny  to 
God.  He  notices  water-cress  men  as  much  as 
kings. 

See  how  God  noticed  me.  I  was  obliged  that 
evening  to  sell  my  cresses  three  bunches  for  a 
halfpenny,  to  get  rid  of  them,  just  because  I  would 
only  say  they  were  good;  and,  when  I  said  that 
they  were  picked  in  the  morning,  some  people 
would  not  have  them  at  all. 


128  TRUTH. 

W.   Well,  but  that  was  not  the  way  to  get  on. 

E.  Yes  it  was*  The  Bible  says,  "  Hold  fast 
to  that  which  is  good  ;  "  and  so  I  did.  Some  of 
my  customers,  who  would  not  buy  my  cresses  in 
the  evening,  bought  some  on  the  next  morning  ; 
for  when  I  said  that  they  were  "  quite  fresh,"  they 
believed  me.  I  never  said  that  they  wer,e  very 
good,  or  better  than  other  people's,  for  that  was 
more  than  the  truth.  When  the  people  found  this 
out,  they  began  to  trust  me,  and  to  believe  all  I 
said  ;  and  soon  I  had  no  cresses  to  leave  till  the 
evening.  Before  the  end  of  the  week,  I  had 
saved  threepence.  The  next  week  I  saved  one 
shilling  and  a  penny.  Soon  people  gave  me  other 
things  to  do ;  they  would  trust  me  to  take  a  par- 
cel, or  to  carry  back  an  umbrella,  or  to  clean  the 
windows ;  and  when  they  paid  me,  and  asked  how 
long  I  had  been  working,  I  told  them  the  exact 
time  and  no  more,  and  they  always  believed  me. 
50,  the  third  week,  I  saved  one  shilling  and  eleven 
pence ;  and  the  fourth  week,  one  shilling  and 
ninepence  ;  and  the  fifth  week,  three  shillings.  I 
grew  richer  every  week  ;  and  now,  you  see,  I  sell 
a  heavy  basket-full  of  cresses  every  morning  and 
evening. 


TRUTH.  129 

Ion.  Yes.  I  meet  you  every  afternoon,  as  I 
come  from  school,  and  your  basket  is  often 
empty. 

E.  Well,  then,  you  see,  Master  Ion,  what  a 
good  thing  plain  truth  is.  It  soon  brought  me 
more  riches  than  all  the  loud  crying  and  boasting 
I  made.  fcMany  people  think  that  nothing  is  worth 
BO  much  as  money.  When  your  mamma  spoke  to 
me  about  truth,  if  she  had  asked  me  which  I 
should  have,j#ye  sovereigns  or  the  advice  she  was 
going  to  give  me 

W.  0,  you  would  have  asked  for  the  sovereigns, 
of  course.  You  would  have  thought  that  they 
were  more  real. 

E.  I  dare  say  I  should  have  done  so  :  yet 
you  see  that  those  .words  have  been  worth  more 
to  me  than  the  gold.  The  money  would  not  have 
bought  half  so  many  things,  nor  have  made  me  so 
happy. 

L.  No.  The  five  sovereigns  would  not  have 
made,  people  trust  you. 

E.  Ah !  and  five  sovereigns  would  not  have 
bought  the  love  of  GOD.  When  I  feel  sure  that 
God  and  men  trust  me,  that  feeling  gives  me  more 

joy  than  my  old  eight-day  clock,  or  my  wife's  new 
9 


130  TRUTH. 

gown,  or  my  chickens  or  pigs.     TRUTH  !  0,  it's 
worth  a  great  deal  more  than  five  pounds. 

L.  What  do  you  call  it,  papa,  when  men  speak 
more  than  the  plain  truth  ? 

P.   It  is  called  "  Exaggeration." 

L.  Then  we  will  try  and  remember  tho,  lesson : 
It  is  wrong  to  speak  more  than  the  Truth,  for  that 
is  EXAGGERATION. 


THE  YOUNGEST. 

I  rocked  her  in  her  cradle, 

And  laid  her  in  the  tomb.     She  was  the  youngest ; 
What  fireside  circle  hath  not  felt  the  charm 
Of  that  sweet  tie  ?    The  youngest  ne'er  grow  old. 
The  fond  endearment  of  our  earlier  days 
We  keep  alive  in  them,  and  when  they  die, 
Our  youthful  joys  we  bury  with  them. 


SPEAK    KINDLY   TO    THE   POOR.  131 


SPEAK  KINDLY  TO  THE  POOK. 

Speak  kindly  to  the  poor ! 

One  little  word,  if  timely  said, 
May  tend  to  soothe  a  thousand  cares  — 

May  dry  the  tear  by  sorrow  shed. 
Let  no  reproaches  from  thy  lips 

Be  breathed,  which  thou  might'st  not  endure; 
Or  give  of  that  which  nothing  costs ! 

Speak  kindly  to  the  poor. 

Look  gently  on  the  poor ! 

And  not  be  hasty  to  depart ; 
Beneath  those  homely  garments  throb 

Full  ma^p  an  honest  heart. 
Thy  smile  may  shed  a  heaven  of  joy  ; 

A  sunlight  word  of  hope  ensure ; 
O,  turn  not  then  in  scorn  away  ! 

Look  gently  on  the  poor. 

Be  friendl}7  to  the  poor! 

To  such  the  promise  lias  been  given ; 
Despised  and  scoffed  at  here  on  earth, 

They  shall  inherit  peace  in  heaven  : 
But,  ah !  how  sad  will  be  thy  fate ! 

Thou  com'st  to  enter  at  the  door, 
And  find'st  no  banquet  there  prepared 

For  any  save  the  poor ! 

B.  W. 


332          A -GARLAND   OF   SPRING  FLOWERS. 


The  snowdrop  !       the  snowdrop  ! 

The  foremost  of  the  train ; 
The  snowdrop  !  the  snowdrop  ! 

Whose  lustre  bears  no  stain. 
In  modest  beauty  peerless, 

It  shows  its  little  bell, 
Through  frost  and  snow  so  cheerless, 

Of  sunny  days  to  tell. 

The  crocus  !  the  crocus ! 

Unheeding  wind  or  rain  ; 
The'erocus  !  the  crocus  ! 

Comes  peeping  up  again. 
In  purple,  white,  or  yellow, 

So  charming  to  the  sight, 
We  scarce  can  find  its  fellow, 

For  colors  pure  and  bright. 

The  daisy  !  the  daisy  ! 

Spread  wide  o'er  hill  and  dale ; 
The  daisy  !  the  daisy  ! 

No  season  knows  to  fail. 
Though  bitter  blasts  are  blowing, 

Its  lovely  buds  unfold, 
A  crown  of  silver  showing, 

And  breast  of  yellow  gold. 


A    GARLAND   OP   SPRING   FLOWERS.  133 

The  Violet !  the  violet ! 

From  sheltered  mossy  bed  ; 
The  violet  !  the  violet  ! 

Just  lifts  its  purple  head. 
Beneath  the  hedgerow  hiding, 

Wheie  withered  leaves  are  cast, 
It  cares  not  for  the  chiding 

Of  March's  angry  blast. 

J 
The  primrose  !  the  primrose  ! 

Beneath  the  ancient  trees  ; 
The  primrose  !  the  primrose  ! 

Seeks  shelter  from  the  breeze. 
Or  where  the  streamlet  dances, 

'Mid  rocky  banks  and  steep, 
To  catch  the  sun's  first  glances, 

Its  early  flowerets  peep. 

The  cowslip  !  the  cowslip ! 

With  leaves  so  fresh  and  green } 
The  cowslip  !  the  cowslip  ! 

With  speckled  bells  is  seen. 
Its  bold  and  hardy  flowers 

Shoot  up  among  the  grass ; 
Nor  fear  the  driving  showers 

That  o'er  the  meadows  pass. 

A  garland  !  a  garland  !  % 

Of  blossoms  rich  and  fair  ; 


134  THE    PROMISES. 

A  garland  !  a  garland  ! 

We'll  bind  for  Spring  to  wear. 
With  butter-cups  entwining, 

The  blue-bells  shall  be  there, 
With  hawthorn's  bloom  combining, 

And  lilies  white  and  fair. 


Training  School  Song  Book. 


THE  PROMISES. 

1.  The  meek  shall  inherit  the  earth,  and  shall 
delight  themselves  in  the  abundance  of  peace. 

2.  A  little  that  a  righteous  man  hath  is  better 
than  the  riches  of  many  wicked. 

3.  The  Lord  knoweth  the  days  of  the  upright, 
and  their  inheritance  shall  be  for  ever. 

4.  They  shall  not  be  ashamed  in  the  evil  time, 
and  in  the  days  of  famine  they  shall  be  satisfied. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING.       135 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 

Ji  story  about  a  good  little  boy  who  taught  his  little 
sister  a  great  many  things. 

There  was  once  a  little  boy,  whom  all  liked 
very  much.  He  was  only  ten  years  old.  He 
could  not  play  well  at  ball  or  hoop,  yet  he  was 
the  first  boy  in  the  school.  His  mother  had 
taught  him  the  hard  lessons,  and  explained  all 
the  hard  words  to  him  ;  so  that  while  other  boys 
were  at  play,  or  doing  mischief,  he  was  learning 
something  useful  from  his  mother. 

One  day  his  father  and  mother  died,  and  he  and 
a  little  sister  had  to  go  and  live  with  an  aunt,  a 
great  distance  from  the  school.  So  the  little  boy 
thought,  as  he  could  not  go  to  school,  he  would 
read  all  the  books  he  could  get,  and  teach  his 
little  sister  all  that  he  knew,  and  all  that  his  good 
mother  had  taught  him  about  God  and  the  heaven- 
ly country  where  their  father  and  mother  had 
gone. 

And,  0,  how  delighted  he  was  to  teach  his 
Bister!  How  joyfully  he  would  get  up  at  six 


136     THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 

o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  would  tie  on  her 
little  black  bonnet,  and  white  pinafore  and  shawl ! 
Then  he  would  brush  her  tiny  shoes,  until  they 
were  very  black,  and  would  put  on  his  straw  hat, 
and  away  they  would  go  over  the  hills  together. 

At  nine  o'clock,  he  would  teach  her  to  read ; 
then  he  taught  her  to  write  and  to  spell.  He 
showed  her  how  to  make  figures,  and  work  sums 
on  her  slate,  and  her  aunt  taught  her  to  sew. 

One  day,  when  they  were  out  on  the  hills,  said 
Joseph  to  Kate,  (for  these  were  their  names)  "  I 
am  going  to  teach  you  all  that  my  dear  mother 
taught  me  from  underneath  this  tree.  Here  are 
hundreds  of  things  yet  to  find  out  and  learn. 

"  Look  at  that  beautiful  sky,  and  the  long, 
streaky  clouds.  We  are  going  to  find  out 
where  the  clouds  come  from,  and  what  they  are 
made  of.  Then  we  want  to  find  out  why  some 
clouds  are  round,  and  some  long,  and  why  they 
are  of  such  a  rosy  color  in  the  morning."  "  Then," 
said  little  Kate,  "  I  want  to  know  what  the  wind, 
which  blows  them  along,  is  made  of,  and  where  it 
comes  from.  We  have  been  noticing,  too,  the 
music  which  the  animals  make  to  the  sun,  when 
they  see  him." 

"  Do  you  see,"  said  Joseph,  "  that  he  is  just 


THE  PLEASURES  OP  LEARNING.      137 

getting  up  !  Listen,  only  now !  There's  the  sing- 
ing of  the  birds,  the  buzzing  of  the  insects,  the 
bleating  of  the  lambs  in  the  valley,  and  the  caw- 
ing of  the  rooks  a  long  way  off.  We  mean  this 
summer  to  count  up  the  different  trees  and  plants 
here,  and,  perhaps,  the  different  earths,  and  rocks, 
and  stones." 

"  Why,"  said  Kate,  "  what  is  there  to  be  learned 
from  this  old  stump  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Joseph,  "  our  mother  taught  me 
many  things  from  it ;  we  had  twelve  lessons :  1st. 
We  examined  the  roots,  to  see  what  they  are 
made  for.  2d.  We  learned  about  the  sap.  3d. 
The  trunk.  4th.  The  branches.  5th.  The  pith. 
6th.  The  layers  of  wood.  7th.  The  bark.  8th. 
The  buds.  9th.  The  leaves,  and  what  they  were 
made  for.  10th.  The  little  insects  which  live  on 
the  leaves  and  under  the  bark.  llth.  How  the 
tree  came  here,  and  what  it  was  made  for.  12th. 
We  learned  its  name,  and  to  what  family  of  trees 
it  belongs.  And  13th.  I  am  going  to  teach  att 
this  to  you." 

"  But  what  is  the  use,"  said  Kate,  "  of  spending 
BO  much  time  in  learning  these  things  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Kate,"  said  Joseph,  "  we  ought 


138      THE  PLEASURES  OF  LEARNING. 

to  notice  and  learn  every  common  thing  around 
us.  From  the  plants  we  get  food  to  nourish  us, 
medicine  to  heal  us,  and  clothing  to  cover  us. 
The  wheat  plants  gave  me  the  straw  for  my  hat. 
The  crocus  plant  grew  the  yellow  color  for  the 
ribbon.  The  indigo  plant  the  dark  blue  for  neck- 
erchiefs. The  flax  plant,  the  linen  for  my  shirt ; 
and  the  cotton  tree  for  your  gown." 

"  Yes,"  said  Kate,  "  and  my  shoestrings  came 
from  a  silkworm,  your  coat  from  a  sheep,  and 
your  shoes  from  a  calf." 

"And,"  resumed  Joseph,  "the  oak  trees  are 
made  into  ships,  the  hemp  plant  into  sails,  and 
the  wind  blows  them  along.  The  earth  gives  us 
iron  for  our  railroads ;  and  water  the  mighty 
steam  for  the  engines.  These  are  all  very  com- 
mon things,  and  yet  man  has  found  much  good  by 
thinking  about  them." 

Thus  little  Joseph  taught  his  sister  every  day 
about  all  the  things  they  saw,  until  she  was  a 
great  girl ;  and  now  they  both  enjoy  more  happi- 
ness than  ever  ;  for  they  are  both  teaching  more 
than  a  hundred  children  how  to  feel  that  they  are 
all  the  works  of  God,  and  how  beautifully  every 
thing  is  made  to  delight  the  e,ye  and  satisfy  the 
soul  that  thirsts  for  knowledge. 


MY   HOME.  139 


MY  HOME. 

My  home,  my  own  dear  home  ! 

It  is  a  happy  place, 
Where  smiles  of  love  are  brightening 

Each  dear,  familiar  face  — 
Where  parents'  arms  enfold  me, 

In  fond  embraces  pressed, 
And  daily,  nightly  blessings 

Upon  the  household  rest. 
Our  morning  salutations, 

How  gladsomely  they  sound  ! 
And  kind  "  good  nights,"  at  evening, 

Like  curtains,  close  us  round. 

The  bird  seeks  not  to  wander 

From  its  own  quiet  nest, 
But  deems  it  of  all  places 

The  dearest  and  the  best. 
Home  is  my  nest,  where  round  me 

Soft  sheltering  wings  are  spread, 
And  peace,  and  joy,  and  gladness, 

With  shade  and  sunlight,  shed. 
O  may  I  bring  no  shadow 

Of  sorrow  or  of  care, 
To  dim  the  open  brightness 

Of  happy  faces  there  ! 

J.  E.  L. 


140  THE   GOOD   WE   MIGHT  DO. 


THE  GOOD  WE  MIGHT  DO. 

We  might  all  do  good, 

When  we  often  do  ill ; 
There  is  always  a  way, 

If  we  have  but  the  will. 
Though  it  be  but  a  word 

Kindly  breathed  or  suppressed, 
It  may  guard  off  some  pain,  » 

Or  give  peace  to  some  breast. 

We  all  might  do  good 

In  a  thousand  small  ways ; 
In  forbearing  to  natter, 

Yet  yielding  due  praise ; 
In  spurning  ill  humor, 

Eeproving  wrong  done, 
And  treating  but  kindly 

Each  heart  we  have  won. 

We  all  might  do  good, 

Whether  lowly  or  great, 
For  the  deed  is  not  gauged 

By  the  purse  or  estate ; 
If  it  be  but  a  cup 

Of  cold  water  that's  given, 
Like  "  the  widow's  two  mites," 

It  is  something  in  heaven. 

A.  S.  O 


THE   UNSTEADY   YOUTH.  141 


THE  UNSTEADY  YOUTH. 


excellent  memory  and  a  lively  disposition,  the 
good  effects  of  which  were  nevertheless  almost 
destroyed  by  an  unfortunate  failing  —  he  was 
too  changeable.  Zephirin  went  one  day  to  pay 
a  visit  to  one  of  his  young  friends.  He  found 
him  employed  in  copying  a  Roman  head.  Ze- 
phirin stood  by  him,  following  every  touch  of  the 
pencil  with  anxious  eyes.  He  was  seized  with  a 
desire  to  learn  drawing.  He  hastened  home,  and 
meeting  his  father  on  the  stairs,  he  threw  his 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  entreated  him  to  go  out 
immediately  and  find  a  drawing  master  for  him. 
His  father,  pleaded  with  his  ardor,  consented  to 
his  request.  They  set  out  immediately  and  en- 
gaged one  of  the  best  teachers. 


142  THE   UNSTEADY  YOUTH. 

Zephirin  was  very  much  grieved  to  hear  that 
the  teacher  would  not  be  able  to  devote  the  whole 
of  every  day  to  him  ;  indeed,  he  was  hardly  to  be 
contented  with  two  hours  a  day. 

"  Such  a  useful  and  agreeable  art,"  said  Ze- 
phirin. "  I  am  surprised,  that  it  is  so  much 
neglected." 

The  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  in  scribbling 
upon  bits  of  paper.  To  be  sure,  ftne  of  his 
drawings  were  presentable.  They  consisted  gen- 
erally of  crooked  mouths  and  noses,  immense 
staring  eyes,  and  arms  and  legs  entirely  devoid 
of  proportion. 

For  the  first  week,  it  all  went  on  very  well. 
Zephirin  made  himself  an  enormous  book  of 
drawing  paper,  and  soon  filled  it.  Seeing  that 
the  garret  walls  had  been  lately  whitewashed,  he 
undertook  a  series  of  the  Roman  emperors,  con- 
suls, and  tribunes  on  horseback,  and  triumphal 
processions. 

But  this  did  not  last  long.  Zephirin  soon  be- 
came tired  of  such  excessive  application.  He 
found  that  the  pencil  blacked  his  hands,  and  Ma 
penknives  grew  dull  with  so  much  cutting.  In 
vain  his  master  spoke  of  the  glory  and  utility  of 


TgE  UNSTEADY  YOUTH.  143 

the  art ;  in  vain  artist  after  artist  "was  cited  a9 
example  and  encouragement. 

One  day,  the  teacher  hoping  to  excite  his  now 
listless  pupil,  brought  with  him  a  young  man,  just 
from  Koine,  who  spoke  in  exalted  terms  of  the 
splendid  works  of  art  he  had  lately  beheld.  In 
expressing  himself,  he  made  use  of  several  Italian 
words,  which  made  much  more  impression  on 
Zephirin  than  all  the  paintings  in  the  world 
could  have  done. 

"  How  much  better,"  exclaimed  he,  "  to  speak 
a  living  language  than  to  employ  one's  self  contin- 
ually in  drawing  useless  heads !  " 

He  ran  to  communicate  his  new  impressions  to 
his  father,  and  the  next  day  Zephirin  took  his 
first  Italian  lesson. 

For  the  first  few  days  his  attention  was  unre- 
mitting, the  difficulties  of  the  grammar  were  soon 
mastered,  and  Zephirin,  delighted  with  the  soft- 
ness and  beauty  of  the  language,  spoke  his  newly- 
acquired  phrases  to  every  body  in  the  house,  and 
was  very  much  displeased  to  find  no  one  could 
understand  him.  He  called  the  cook  Vostra 
Signora,  and  the  footman  Cor  mio. 

He  soon  got  through   the  Italian  translation 


144  THE  UNSTEADY  YOUTH. 

of  Telemachus,  and  searching  in  his  father's  book- 
case for  a  more  difficult  book,  "  Don  Quixote,"  in 
Spanish,  fell  into  his  hands. 

This  was  a  new  source  of  delight.  0,  what 
a  treasure!  and  how  necessary  it  was  now  to  be- 
come able  to  read  it,  —  the  pride  of  Spanish  lit- 
erature, with  its  proverbs,  its  witty  speeches,  all 
in  its  native  richness.  What  were  Mentor's 
grave  harangues  in  comparison  with  Sancho's 
admirable  remarks !  and  Calypso,  in  all  her  pride 
of  beauty  and  loveliness,  could  she  inspire  half 
the  interest  which  «very  one  takes  in  Dulcinea  ? 
Spanish  was  now  the  order  of  the  day,  and  Ze- 
phirin  was  for  a  time  perfectly  happy  ;  but  before 
Don  Quixote  had  accomplished  his  second  sortie 
Zephirin  had  given  up  Spanish  for  English,  and 
that  in  its  turn  had  been  superseded  by  German. 
So  that  at  the  end  of  a  year,  Zephirin  could  speak 
four  living  languages,  but  all  so  imperfectly,  and 
with  such  a  mixture  of  all  in  his  every-day  con- 
versation, that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  under- 
stand him. 

Zephirin  was  very  anxious  to  learn  to  dance 
well ;  but  his  impatience  prevented  him  from 
making  any  progress  in  the  art. 


THE   UNSTEADY    YOUTH.  145 

He  next  turned  his  attention  to  music.  But* 
on  what  instrument  should  he  begin  ?  After  a 
great  deal  of  indecision  he  selected  the  violin, 
and  at  the  end  of  six  months  took  up  the  flute  in- 
stead, and  succeeded  in  learning  to  play  with 
some  skill. 

His  father,  alarmed  at  his  changeable  disposi- 
tion, and  fearing  that  he  would  never  learn  any 
one  thing,  consented  to  his  desire  of  visiting  the 
different  countries  of  Europe,  in  the  hope  that  by 
mixing  more  with  his  fellow-creatures  he  would 
learn  the  folly  of  his  own  habits. 

Zephirin  therefore  set  out  for  England,  accom- 
panied by  a  tutor.  Arrived  in  London,  Zephirin 
was  in  ecstasy  ;  he  spent  his  whole  time  in  run- 
ning about  the  streets,  admiring  the  churches,  the 
shops,  the  magnificence  of  the  houses,  &c.,  but 
he  became  very  much  fatigued  and  very  anxious 
to  visit  some  new  place.  He  therefore,  with  great 
joy,  ordered  post  horses  for  Dover  the  next  day. 

Italy  was  now  the  great  object  of  >  his  wishes  — 
glorious  Italy  !  After  suffering  much  from  sea- 
sickness, they  arrived  safely,  and  made  their  first 
visit  to  Leghorn,  from  whence  they  set  out  for 
Florence  ;  but  Zephirin  could  think  and  talk  of 
10 


146  THE   UNSTEADY  YOUTH. 

Nothing  but  Rome.  Even  the  gallery  at  Florence 
had  no  charms  for  him.  Arrived  at  Rome,  Ze- 
phirin,  at  the  end  of  three  days,  was  perfectly  sat- 
isfied. He  had  seen  every  thing  of  note  in  Rome, 
and  even  found  time  to  pack  up  his  clothes,  and 
was  all  ready  to  set  out  for  Naples.  At  Naples, 
Zephirin's  imagination  feasted  on  the  pleasure  he 
should  receive  from  visiting  Pompeii  ;  but  here 
too  he  was  disappointed.  Even  the  fine  port  at 
Naples  won  from  him  no  admiration  ;  his  restless 
spirit  never  enjoyed  the  present  ;  comparisons 
were  instituted  between  it  and  the  equally  cele- 
brated ports  of  Amsterdam,  Bourdeaux,  and  Con- 
stantinople, which  he  now  longed  to  behold. 

They  now  directed  their  course  towards  Ven- 
ice. The  journey,  it  is  true,  was  to  be  long  and 
tiresome,  for  they  were  to  go  from  one  end  of 
Italy  to  the  other,  but  every  sacrifice  was  cheer- 
fully made  by  Zephirin  in  favor  of  Venice,  with 
its  five  hundred  bridges,  its  gondoliers,  and  its 
canals. 

But  our  readers  will  accuse  the  tutor  of  unrea- 
sonable compliance  with  the  whims  of  this  foolish 
boy.  The  truth  was,  that  Zephirin's  father,  by 
means  of  constant  communication  with  his  son. 


THE  UNSTEADY  YOUTH.  147 

Lad  discovered,  to  his  great  regret,  the  effect  of 
his  travels  upon  his  mind.  He  observed  that 
Zephirin  always  complained  very  much  of  the 
place  they  were  in,  and  looked  forward  with  en- 
thusiastic longings  to  the  next  stage  of  their 
journey.  He  therefore  resolved  to  recall  him  im- 
mediately ;  but  from  observing  the  course  pursued 
by  him,  he  doubted  not  but  that  Zephirin  would 
soon  hasten  home  of  his  own  accord.  He  there- 
fore desired  the  tutor  to  bear  with  his  whims  for 
a  while,  in  the  hope  that  they  would  not  be  of 
long  duration. 

It  happened  exactly  as  the  old  gentleman  had 
predicted.  Zephirin,  after  passing  rapidly  through 
Venice,  Turin,  Switzerland,  and  Holland,  returned 
to  France,  dissatisfied. 

His  father  received  him  with  affection,  but  at 
the  same  time  could  not  avoid  observing  how 
dearly  his  son  had  paid  for  all  the  advantages  he 
had  received.  Acquainted  with  no  one  accom- 
plishment or  science,  but  possessing  a  confused 
mixture  of  all,  he  beheld  him  just  about  to  enter 
the  state  of  manhood  with  no  qualifications  for 
business,  no  strivings  after  excellence,  idle,  rash, 
vain,  impetuous,  and  variable  ;  a  misery  to  himself 
and  to  all  around  him. 


148  THE  SPIRIT'S  WHISPER. 


THE  SPIRIT'S  WHISPER. 


Sweet  mother,  do  not  weep  ! 
The  joy  of  sainted  spirits  now  is  mine  ; 
I  roam  the  fields  of  light,  with  those  who  keep 
Bright  watch,  where  heaven's  own  golden  portals  shine. 

I  am  the  babe  no  more, 
"Who  gave  its  feeble  wailing  to  thine  ear  ; 
Free  from  the  cumbering  clay,  I  mount,  I  soar, 
Upward  and  onward,  through  a  boundless  sphere. 

O,  couldst  thou  know  how  fair, 
How  full  of  blessedness,  this  better  land, 
Thou  wouldst  rejoice  thy  child  in  safety  there 
Had  place  for  ever  'mid  the  angel  band. 

I  may  not  tell  thee  all 
Its  light  and  loveliness  ;  its  hymns  of  joy 
Upon  a  mortal  ear  may  never  fall, 
And  tongues  immortal  can  ? Jone  employ  : 

But,  O,  't  is  sweet  to  be 
A  sinless  dweller  'mid  its  radiant  bowers  ! 
To  join  its  seraph-songs  of  harmony,  — 
To  breathe  the  incense  of  its  fadeless  flowers,  — 


THE  SPIRIT'S  WHISPER.  149 

To  d-w  ell  no  more  with  pain,  — 
To  shed  no  tears,  —  to  feel  no  panting  breath. 
Sweet  mother,  do  not  grieve  for  me  again, 
I  am  so  blessed  ;  I  bless  the  hand  of  death. 

Turn  with  unwavering  trust 
From  the  green  earth-bed,  where  my  body  lies  ; 
Ihou  didst  but  lay  its  covering  in  the  dust ; 
Thy  child  yet  lives,  will  live,  beyond  the  skies. 

There  we  shall  meet  again : 
O,  yes  !  sweet  mother,  meet  to  part  no  more  ! 
I'll  welcome  thee  with  heaven's  angelic  train, 
And  lead  *hee  to  the  Saviour  we  adore. 


A  mirror  —  has  been  well  defined  — 
An  emblem  —  of  a  thoughtful  mind  ; 
For,  look  upon  it,  —  when  you  will, 
You  find  —  it  is  reflecting  still. 


I  hate  to  see  a  boy  —  so  rude, 
That  one  might  think  him —  raised 

In  some  wild  region  of  the  wood, 
And  but  half —  civilized. 


150  SUSAN   GEAY. 


SUSAN    GRAY. 

"  Can  I  stay  at  home  from  school  to  day, 
mother?"  said  Susan  Gray. 

"  Why,"  asked  her  mother,  as  she  looked  up 
from  her  sewing,  "  are  you  sick,  my  child  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  Susan,  as  she  hung  down  her 
head,  "but  I  do  not  wish  to  go  to-day." 

The  mother  for  a  few  moments  was  silent. 
She  had  but  little  property,  and  she  had  been 
making  a  great  effort  to  educate  her  child. 
She  had  practised  not  a  little  self-denial  her- 
self, and  often  urged  upon  her  daughter  the  im- 
portance of  making  all  the  improvements  in  her 
power.  Susan,  however,  had  not  always  heeded 
her  advice,  and  cared  little  about  her  books. 
Quick  and  lively,  fond  of  the  society  of  her  young 
companions,  she  very  much  preferred  to  mingle 
with  them,  and  laugh  and  talk,  instead  of  the  hard 
study  of  the  school  room.  Often  before  had  she 
begged  her  mother  to  permit  her  to  remain  at 
home,  and  too  often  succeeded,  for  Mrs.  Gray, 
though  a  sensible  and  good  woman,  could  not  al- 
ways resist  the  importunities  of  her  child.  She 


SUSAN    GRAY. 

had  been  much  afflicted.  Several  of  her  children 
were  in  the  grave,  and  her  heart  was  often  sad  as 
she  thought  of  their  bright  faces  and  cheerful 
voices  which  she  could  never  hear  again.  Her 
heart  clung  still  more  fondly  to  those  that  sur- 
vived, and  often  in  her  tenderness  she  could  not 
deny  what  she  knew  was  for  their  injury.  Susan, 
too,  was  the  youngest.  She  had  often  been  sick, 
and  the  very  care  she  had  required  had  only  ren- 
dered her  more  dear. 

"  You  can  stay  at  home,"  at  last  said  Mrs.  Gray, 
"  though  I  am  very  sorry  you  wish  it  so  much,  for 
your  school  days,  Susan,  must  soon  end." 

Susan  did  stay  at  home.  Gladly  she  busied 
herself  in  different  ways.  She  attended  to  her 
Canary  bird,  and  listened  for  a  while  to  his  merry 
singing.  Then  she  remembered  a  nice  story  she 
was  reading,  and  she  hurried  for  the  book  and 
finished  it.  Then  she  was  a  little  lonely,  for 
there  seemed  nothing  she  could  think  of  to  in- 
terest her,  and  she  felt  a  little  sorry  she  had  not 
gone  to  school.  But  after  dinner  some  young 
friends  called,  and  she  was  quite  happy.  They 
gave  her  an  invitation,  too,  to  go  with  them  in 
the  evening,  where  in  sport  and  merriment  the 


152  SUSAN   GRAY. 

time  flew  swiftly  on.  But  at  home  at  last,  when 
in  the  silence  of  her  own  chamber,  she  did  not 
feel  quite  so  happy.  She  thought  of  her  mother's 
reluctant  consent,  and  how  pained  she  had  evi- 
dently been  at  her  request.  She  felt,  too,  that 
swiftly  as  the  day  had  passed  she  had  spent  it 
unprofitably.  She  could  recall  not  one  good 
deed  done,  not  one  good  lesson  learned.  She 
thought,  too,  of  her  lost  lessons  at  school ;  how 
unfitted  they  had  made  her  to  go  on  with  her 
class  ;  of  the  additional  labor  she  must  impose 
upon  her  teachers  ;  of  the  influence  her  irregu- 
larity was  exerting  upon  the  school.  As  these 
thoughts  came  and  went,  she  felt  little  satisfied 
with  herself,  and  regretted  the  manner  in  which 
she  had  spent  the  day. 

"  I  am  not  preparod,"  said  Susan  Gray  to  her 
teacher  the  next  morning,  "  I  was  absent  yester- 
day, and  have  had  no  time  to  study  my  lessons." 

The  teacher  looked  at  her,  but  said  nothing;  for 
many  times  before  had  he  heard  this  from  her 
lips.  His  thoughts,  however,  were  very  busy. 
He  thought  of  her  wasted  talents  and  misim- 
proved  opportunities  ;  of  the  little  time  before 
her  school  days  would  be  over,  and  she  would 


SUSAN  GRAY.  153 

sigh  for  them  in  vain  ;  of  what  an  intelligent, 
useful  wjman  she  might  be,  and  how  little  she 
would  be  regarded,  how  little  influence  she  would 
exert  as  she  would  be  ;  of  the  disappointed  hopes 
of  her  friends,  expecting  much  where  so  little 
would  be  done  :  he  thought,  too,  of  the  many  he 
had  known  deprived  of  all  means  of  education, 
and  how  much  they  would  give  for  a  little  part 
of  these  privileges  so  slightly  regarded.  These 
thoughts  and  many  more  were  in  his  mind,  and  he 
was  sick  at  heart  as  he  gazed  at  the  intelligent- 
looking  girl  before  him.  Should  he  tell  her  his 
thoughts  ?  He  had  before  counselled  her,  and  it 
had  done  no  good  —  he  could  tell  her  nothing  she 
did  not  know.  She  would  choose  her  own  way, 
and  she  must  reap  as  she  would  sow.  He  was 
silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  simply  said,  "  I  am 
sorry  ;  "  and  she  turned  to  her  seat,  glad  that  she 
had  escaped  a  reprimand,  that  not  even  the 
reason  of  her  absence  was  asked,  which  she  felt, 
she  should  so  poorly  be  able  to  explain. 

Sad  is  it  that  Susan  Gray  will  not  be  wise. 

That  parent  who  now  mourns  because  she  is  so 
indifferent  will  one  day  pass  away,  though  not 
the  remembrance  of  her  affection-  and  efforts  for 


154  THE    [NDIAN  MAIDEN'S   FAREWELL. 

her  child;  those  teachers  whose  cares  have  been 
much  increased  by  her  will  be  her  teachers,  in 
the  course  of  time,  no  longer  ;  whether  Susan  is 
intelligent  or  ignorant  will  then  make  no  differ- 
ence to  them  ;  but  years  hence,  each  unimproved 
opportunity  will  come  back,  and  bitter  tears  will 
Susan  Gray  shed  over  the  follies  and  neglect  of 
her  youth.  —  From  the  Casket,  a  paper  published  in 
the  Newburypott  Female  High  School. 


THE  INDIAN   MAIDEN'S  FAREWELL. 

On  the  soft,  green  moss,  in  the  forest  wild, 
At  the  sunset  hour,  lay  a  dying  child  ; 
The  "Indian's  Pride,"  on  her  death  bed  lay, 
In  the  forest  dark,  at  the  close  of  day. 

And  through  the  dim  aisles  of  the  forest  still, 
Wild  rang  her  voice  as  a  clarion  shrill : 
"  It  is  the  '  Great  Spirit '  hath  laid  me  low; 
He  called  me  to  come,  and  I  must  go. 

"  Farewell !  I  must  go  to  the  spirit  land, 

• 
I  must  go  to  dwell  with  that  happy  band  : 


TRUE    CHARITY.  155 

'JTiey  called  mo  this  morn  at  break  of  day, 
They  called  me  to  go  with  them  away. 

"  Their  voices  I  hear  in  the  sighing  breeze,  • 
That  sings  'mid  the  boughs  of  the  old  oak  trees  ; 
They  call  me  to  go  with  them  away  ; 
They  call  me,  and  1  can  no  longer  stay. 

"  Farewell  to  my  friends,  farewell  to  my  home ; 

The  spirits  are  calling  ;  1  come,  1  come." 

In  the  forest  dark,  at  the  close  of  day, 

Her  life,  with  the  sunbeams,  hath  passed  away. 

Ellen. 


TRUE  CHARITY. 

BENJAMIN,  JOHN,  AND  MOTHER. 

(Enter  Ben,  with  a  loaf  of  bread.) 

Ben.  Here's  the  bread,  mother.  Now  you 
must  eat  as  much  as  you  want,  for  you  see  I  can 
earn  money  enough  to  buy  more  when  we've  eaten 
up  this. 

John.  And  you'll  buy  me  a  cap,  won't  you,  Ben  ? 


156  TRUE    CHARITY. 

Ben.  0.  yes,  Johnny :  you  shall  have  a  cap  if 
we  have  money  enough. 

Mother.  (Beginning  to  cut  the  bread.)  This  bread 
is  hard  :  the  knife  won't  go  through  it. 

Ben.  0  mother,  it's  only  because  you  are  so 
weak,  and  you  know  you  hurt  your  arm  when  our 
house  was  burned.  Give  me  the  knife,  mother,  and 
I  guess  I'll  make  it  go  through  about  the  quick- 
est. (Takes  the  knife,  and  with  great  force  cuts 
th%  bread,  upon  which  several  pieces  of  money  fall  to 
the  floor.} 

Mother.  What  are  you  doing,  my  child  ?  What's 
all  that?  Where  has  all  this  money  come  from ? 

Ben.  From  the  bread,  mother  ;  from  the  bread, 
as  soon  as  I  got  the  knife  into  it.  Hurrah !  what 
a  loaf  of  bread  !  It  is  a  loaf  of  money.  Now, 
says  I,  we've  got  money  enough  to  last  us  all  our 
lives.  (Begins  to  pick  up  the  money.} 

Mother.  Stop,  Ben,  stop!  This  is  not  your 
money,  nor  mine  :  you  must  not  touch  it. 

Ben.  But,  mother,  I  bought  the  bread  and  paid 
for  it  with  the  money  I  earned  for  cleaning  the 
knives. 

Mother.  I  know  that,  my  dear  boy  ;  but  the  per- 
son who  sold  you  this  loaf  did  not  mean  to  give 


TRUE    CHARITY.  151 

you  this  money.  There  must  be  some  mistake. 
You  must  take  it  back,  my  boy. 

Sen.  (Sorrowfully.)  What,  all  of  it,  mother  ? 

Mother.  Yes,  every  piece  :  it  isn't  honestly  ours. 

Ben.  0,  dear,  how  I  wish  it  was  1  Well,  the 
baker  must  give  me  another  real  good  one,  and 
I'll  go  and  get  it  in  about  no  time.  (Exit  Ben.) 

Mother.  We'd  better  starve  than  be  dishonest. 

John.  Why  did  you  send  that  money  back  to 
the  baker,  mammy  ? 

Mother.  Because  it  was  not  mine  to  keep. 

John.  Then  haven't  we  any  money  to  buy  bread 
with? 

Mother.  Yes,  we  have  some  money,  and  Ben 
will  soon  be  back,  and  bring  some  bread  that  we 
can  eat. 

John.  I'm  glad,  'cause  I'm  so  hungry  ;  I  want 
some  bread  to  eat.  Mammy,  couldn't  I  get  some 
money,  like  Ben?  I  can  clean  knives  too,  and 
then  you  wouldn't  cry  so. 

(Enter  Ben.) 

Ben.  Hurrah !  mother,  the  bread  and  the  money 
is  all  ours,  every  bit  of  it ;  the  baker  said  so  ; 
and  here  it  is,  and  another  nice  loaf.  He  told  me 


158  TRUE    CHARITY. 

that  somebody  came  there  this  morning,  and  gave 
him  the  money,  and  told  him  to  put  it  into  the 
bread,  and  if  I  came  to  buy  a  loaf,  to  give  me  this 
very  one.  So  he  gave  me  back  the  money  and  a 
good  loaf  beside. 

Mother.  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  my  boy. 
What  can  this  mean  ? 

Ben.  It  means,  mother,  that  you  shall  have  a 
good  loaf  of  bread  and  enough  money  to  buy 
more  with  :  it  certainly  is  yours,  and  you  must 
keep  it.  Who  do  you  suppose  it  was,  mother  ? 

Mother.  Well,  my  child,  I  suppose  you  are  right, 
and  I  must  keep  the  money.  Who  can  have  done 
this? 

Ben.  O  mother,  I  know  now  —  I  guess  I  do. 
It  was  the  very  gentleman  who  gave  me  the 
knives  to  scour. 

Mother.  It  was«-  somebody  that  was  very  good, 
and  you  shall  now  eat  as  much  as  you  want. 
Perhaps  we  may  find  out  who  has  been  so  kind  to 
us  ;  and  we  can  love  them,  even  if  we  don't. 

John.  (Thoughtfully.)  Haven't  I  heard  you  read, 
somewhere,  mother.  "It  is  more  blessed  to  give 
than  to  receive  "  ? 

Mother.  Yes,  John,  I  have  ;  and  our  good  friend 


TEMPTATIONS.  159 

has  found  that  out,  and  learned  also  to  give  his 
alms  in  secret,  and  he  will  have  his  reward  ;  for 
God,  who  hears  the  ravens  when  they  cry,  has 
also  heard  the  cry  of  the  widow  and  the  father- 
less, and  will  grant  to  him  who  gave  in  secret  to 
their  necessities  an  open  reward. 


TEMPTATIONS. 

Often  are  we  sorely  tempted 

On  this  sorrow-laden  shore, 
Seemingly  from  nought  exempted 

Which  can  cloud  the  spirit  o'er. 
Every  day  brings  many  trials 

We  must  breast  with  manly  hearte, 
Brings  afflictions,  self-denials, 

And  a  thousand  cunning  arts 
Which  the  tempter  ever  uses 

To  ensnare  us  if  he  may, 
If  the  tempted  spirit  chooses 

To  be  guidad  in  the  way 
He  would  paint  for  weary  mortals, 

Paint  with  fascinating  sin, 
Lest  they  pass  the  heavenly  portals 

Where  the  angels  enter  in. 

Yet  wheK  filled  with  cankering  sorrow, 
As  we  feel  their  vexing  power, 

il 


160  TEMPTATIONS. 

Seeing  not  a  bright  to-morrow 

Through  the  shadows  of  the  hour, 
But  instead  a  dark  foreboding 

Of  the  gloomy  hours  to  be, 
Heavily  the  spirit  loading, 

Till  no  ray  of  hope  we  see,  — 
Then  it  is  we  need  assistance 

From  an  ever-powerful  arm, 
Which  can  give  us  in  resistance 

"Victory  and  spirit  calm  ; 
Which  can  give  us  joy  for  weeping, 

Hope  for  melancholy  thought, 
Flowers  of  love  for  daily  reaping, 

And  a  thousand  gifts  unsought. 

Stronger  grow  we  through  temptation 

If  we  manfully  resist, 
And  our  earthly  tribulation 

Still  is  but  a  shadowy  mist, 
Through  which,  with  a  strong  decision, 

We  must  press  our  onward  way 
To  the  shining  fields  elysian, 

Where  is  one  eternal  day. 
Let  us  then  forever  banish 

From  us  each  rebellious  ^bought, 
And  a  thousand  ills  shall  vanish 

Which  we  often  wish  were  not. 
And  through  faith  our  hearts  shall  gather 

Strength  to  gain  an  Eden-rest, 
And  to  feel  our  heavenly  Father 

Knoweth  what  is  for  the  best.  Lillian. 


AVARICE  PUNISHED.  tM 

AVARICE  PUNISHED. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

Three  men  travelled  together  ;  advancing  on 
their  journey  they  found  a  treasure  ;  they  were 
much  pleased.  Continuing  to  proceed,  hunger 
seized  them,  and  one  said, "  It  is  necessary  to  have 
something  to  eat ;  who  will  go  and  get  it  ?  "  "  I/' 
replied  the  second.  He  departed,  bought  meat ; 
but  after  buying  it  he  thought  if  he  poisoned  it, 
his  companions  would  die,  and  the  treasure  would 
remain  to  him.  So  he  poisoned  the  meat.  How- 
ever, during  his  absence,  the  two  others  had  med- 
itated to  kill  him,  and  divide  the  treasure  between 
them.  He  came,  they  killed  him,  ate  of  the 
meat  that  he  had  bought,  died,  and  the  treasure 
belonged  to  no  one. 


162     MY  MIGNONETTE,  OR  TOO  LATE. 


MY  MIGNONETTE,  OR  TOO  LATE. 

How  delightful  to  return  a^ter  a  long  journey, 
to  meet  again  dear  faces,  to  sit  in  the  old  seats,  to 
behold  at  every  corner  the  sweet  familiarities  of 
home  !  We  ran  down  the  walk  to  take  a  survey 
of  the  garden,  and  to  rejoice  over  the  growth  and 
blooming  beauties  of  our  dear  summer  companions, 
the  garden  flowers.  They  seemed  to  have  been 
nicely  cared  for,  and  looked  as  fair  and  fresh  as 
the  morning.  Sweet-pea  was  on  tiptoe.  Coreopsis 
smiled  radiantly,  while  Heart's-ease  was  as  charm- 
ing as  could  be.  We  greeted  them  all,  gladly 
enough ;  but  where  was  my  modest  little  favorite, 
my  choice  friend,  without  whose  fragrant  presence 
no  bouquet  is  either  beautiful  or  complete  —  where 
was  Mignonette?  I  hurried  around,  longing  to 
inhale  its  sweet  breath.  I  looked  where  it  used  to 
be,  and  it  was  not  there  :  I  sought  where  it  might 
be,  and  it  was  not  there !  Where  is  my  Migno- 
nette ?  Nobody  knew ;  nobody  had  missed  it ; 
some  surmised  that  it  had  never  been  planted  ; 
others  suggested  that  it  might  have  been  wed  up 
among  the  weeds. 


MY   MIGNONETTE,    OR   TOO    LATE  163 

"  Oh,  I  must  plant  more,"  I  cried  sadly.  "  To- 
morrow I  will  come  again  and  plant." 

To-morrow  came,  and  other  things  came  in  to 
hinder  me. 

"  To-morrow  will  do,"  again  solaced  me ;  then 
another  to.-morrow,  and  still  another,  and  so  on,  till 

* 

full  many  to-morrows  passed  'by,  and  my  work  was 
not  yet  done ;  each  one  bearing  a  little  regret  for 
the  past,  a  little  promise  for  the  future,  and  a  se- 
cret yearning  for  the  meek  eye  and  soft  perfume 
of  my  favorite  flower. 

At  length  a  to-morrow  came,  long  way  off  from 
the  first  to-morrow,  and  I  went  out  to  sow  the 
seed. 

"  It  is  too  late,"  admonished  a  friend  near  me. 

"  Too  late !  Oh,  no.  Are  there  not  sun  and 
rain  and  dew  and  warmth  enough  in  summer  yet  ? 
Yes,  surely." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  repeated  she. 

"  Oh,  it  will  soon  come  up,  and  soon  bloom ; 
why  not  ? "  and  in  all  haste  I  began  my  work. 
"  Too  late  !  look  at  the  summer  sky,  and  see  if  it 
is  too  late.  No,  no  !  " 

On  the  third  day  after,  behold,  little  tips  of 
green  appear ;  then  a  sprig,  then  a  leaf ;  fast  they 
came,  as  if  redeeming  the  time.  I  was  glad  over 


164  MY  MIGNONETTE,    OR   TOO    LATE. 

it.  "  Too  late  !  No,  no  !  there  is  the  seasoiv 
yet ; "  and  so  it  kept  growing,  day  after  day,  put- 
ting forth  a  multitude  of  leaves.  Day  after  day  I 
carefully  watched  and  sought  buds  thereon.  At 
last,  when  well  nigh  weary  with  watching,  I  des- 
cried on  the  topmost  sprig  a  cleaving  together 
among  its  tiniest  leaves,  like  a  first  faint  embryo. 

"  The  flower  is  near  !  "  I  exclaimed  joyfully.  I 
looked  on  it  at  morning  and  evening,  and  at  mid- 
day :  the  sun  shone  brightly,  the  dews  exhaled 
freely,  the  rains  fell  gently,  but  it  grew  no  more  : 
the  small  buds,  if  buds  they  were,  opened  not :  its 
leaves  were  green  and  flourishing,  but  it  bore 
leaves  only  ;  it  never  came  to  maturity ;  and  when 
the  last  autumn  chill  came,  it  drooped  and  died. 
It  was  too  late.  I  looked  mournfully  over  it,  and 
it  utters  the  rebuke,  "  Too  late."  Ah,  yes,  a  sad 
and  solemn  lesson  it  teaches  me.  There  is  a  time, 
when,  if  you  plant,  you  shall  never  reap. 

Too  late  !  Mother,  have  you  taken  the  best 
and  earliest  time  to  plant  the  precious  seed  of 
God's  word  in  the  heart  of  your  boy?  Hasten, 
nor  trust  to  future  to-morrows.  It  may  be  too 
late. 

Teacher,  have  you  to-day  pointed  the  young 
spirit  before  you  to  the  heavenly  city,  and  urged  it 


MY  MIGNONETTE,    OB    TOO    LATE.  165 

to  press  on  thither.     Next  Sabbath  may  be  too 
late. 

Christian,  danger  lurks  in  the  path  of  your  friend  ; 
will  you  wait  the  morrow  to  warn  him  from  the 
snares  of  the  destroyer  ?  It  may  be  too  late. 

Man  of  God,  are  you  up  with  an  alert  activity 
bidding  your  flock  to  flee  to  the  cross  for  refuge 
from  the  wrath  to  come  ? 

The  Sun  of  righteousness  may  shine,  the  dews 
of  divine  grace  may  descend,  showers  of  mercy 
may  plenteously  fall,  yet,  for  many  a  soul,  it  may 
be  too  late,  too  late  !  H.  c  K 


LITTLE  THINGS. 

SCORN  not  the  slightest  word  or  deed, 
Nor- deem  it  void  of  power; 

There  'a  fruit  in  each  wind-wafted  seed, 
Waiting  its  natal  hour. 

A  whispered  word  may  touch  the  heart, 

And  call  it  back  to  life ; 
A  look  of  love  bid  sin  depart, 

And  still  unholy  strife. 

No  act  falls  fruitless,  none  can  tell 
How  vast  its  power  may  be; 

Nor  what  results  unfolded  dwell 
Within  it,  silently. 


166  THE   ANGEL   VISIT. 


THE  ANGEL  VISIT. 

ON  the  evening  of  one  thirty-first  of  December 
I  had  been  cherishing  the  humiliating  and  solemi 
reflections  which  are  peculiarly  suitable  to  the  close 
of  the  year,  and  endeavoring  to  bring  my  -mind  to 
that  view  of  the  past,  best  calculated  to  influence 
the  future.  I  had  attempted  to  recall  the  promi- 
nent incidents  of  the  twelve  months  which  had 
elapsed ;  and,  in  this  endeavor,  I  was  led  frequent- 
ly to  regret  how  little  my  memory  could  retain 
even  of  that  most  important  to  be  remembered.  I 
could  not  avoid,  at  such  a  period,  looking  forwards 
as  well  as  backwards,  and  anticipating  that  fearful 
tribunal  at*which  no  occurrence  will  be  forgotten ; 
whilst  my  imagination  penetrated  into  the  distant 
destinies  which  shall  be  dependent  on  its  decisions. 
At  my  usual  hour  I  retired  to  rest  —  but  the  train 
of  meditation  I  had  pursued  was  so  important  arid 
appropriate,  that  imagination  continued  it  after 
sense  had  slumbered.  "  In  thoughts  from  the  vi- 
sions of  the  night,  when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon 
man,"  I  was  mentally  concerned  in  the  following 
scen'3  of  interest. 

I  imagined  myself  still  adding  link  after  link  to 


THE   ANGEL   VISIT.  167 

the  chain  of  reflection,  the  progress  of  which  the 
time  of  repose  had  interrupted ;  and  whilst  thus  en- 
gaged I  was  aware  that  there  remained  but  a  few 
moments  to  complete  the  day.  I  heard  the  clock 
as  it  tolled  the  knell  of  another  year,  and  as  it 
rung  slowly  the  appointed  number,  each  •  note  was 
followed  by  a  sting  of  conscience  bitterly  reproach- 
ing me  for  my  neglect  of  precious  time.  The  last 
stroke  was  ringing  in  my  ears  —  painful  as  the 
groan  announcing  the  departure  of  a  valuable  friend 
—  when,  notwithstanding  the  meditative  posture  in 
which  I  was  sitting,  I  perceived  that  the  dimness 
of  the  apartment  changed  to  brightness  —  and  on 
lifting  my  eyes  to  discover  the  cause,  I  was  terri- 
fied at  perceiving  that  another  being  was  with  me 
in  my  seclusion.  I  saw  one  before  me  whose  form 
indeed  was  human  —  but  the  bright  burning  glance 
of  his  eye,  and  the  splendor  which  beamed  forth 
from  every  part  of  his  beautifully  proportioned  form, 
convinced  me  at  a  glance  that  it  was  no  mortal 
being  that  I  saw.  The  elevation  of  his  brow  gave 
dignity  of  the  highest  order  to  his  countenance  — 
but  the  most  acute  observation  was  indicated  by 
his  piercing  eye,  and  inexorable  justice  was  im- 
printed on  his  majestic  features.  A  glittering  phy- 
lactery encircled  his  head,  on  which  was  written  as 


1 

168  THE   ANGEL   VISIT. 

in  letters  of  fire,  "  The  Faithful  One."  Under 
one  arm  he  bore  two  volumes ;  in  his  hand  he  held 
a  pen.  I -instantly  knew  the  recording  angel  — 
the  secretary  of  the  terrible  tribunal  of  Heaven. 
With  a  trembling  which  convulsed  my  frame  I 
heard  his  unearthly  accents.  "  Mortal,"  said  he, 
"  thou  wast  longing  to  recall  the  events  of  the  past 
year  —  thou  art  permitted  to  gaze  upon  the  record 
of  the  book  of  God  —  peruse  and  be  wise."  As 
he  spoke  thus  he  opened  before  me  one  of  the  vol- 
umes which  he  had  brought.  In  fearful  appre- 
hension I  read  in  it  my  own  name,  and  recognized 
the  history  of  my  own  life  during  the  past  year 
with  all  its  minutest  particulars.  Burning  words 
were  those  which  that  volume  contained  —  all  the 
actions  and  circumstances  of  my  life  were  register- 
ed under  their  respective  heads  in  that  dreadful 
book.  I  was  first  struck  by  the  title  "  Mercies 
Received"  Some  were  there,  the  remembrance  of 
which  I  had  retained  —  more,  which  were  recalled 
after  having  been  forgotten  —  but  the  far  greater 
number  had  never  been  noticed  at  all.  Oh  !  what 
a  detail  of  preservations  and  deliverances,  and  in- 
vitations, and  warnings,  and  privileges,  and  bestow- 
ments !  I  remember  that  "  Sabbaths  "  stood  out 
in  very  prominent  characters,  as  if  they  had  been 


THE    ANGEL    VISIT.  169 

among  the  greatest  benefits.  In  observing  the  re- 
capitulation, I  could  not  but  be  struck  with  one  cir- 
cumstance. It  was  that  many  dispensations  which 
I  had  considered  curses  were  here  enumerated  as 
blessings.  Many  a  one  which  had  riven  the  heart 

—  many  a  cup  whose  bitterness  seemed  to  desig- 
nate it  as  poison,  was  there  verifying  the  language 
of  the  poet  — 

"  E'en  crosses  from  His  sovereign  hand, 
Are  blessings  in  disguise." 

Another  catalogue  was  there  —  it  was  the  enu- 
meration of  transgressions.  My  hand  trembles  as 
I  remember  them !  What  an  immense  variety  of 
classes  !  Indifference  —  thoughtlessness  —  formal- 
ity —  ingratitude  —  unbelief  —  sins  against  the 
world  —  against  the  Church  —  against  the  Father 

—  against  the  Saviour  and  against  the  Sanctifier 

—  stood  at  the  head  of  their  crowded  battalions,  as 
if  for  the  purpose  of  driving  me  to  despair.     Not 
one  sin  was  forgotten  there  —  neglected  Sabbaths 

—  abused   ordinances  —  misimproved    time  — -  en- 
couraged temptations,  —  there  they  stood,  with  no 
excuse,  no  extenuation.     There  was  one  very  long 
class  I  remember  well  —  "  Idle  words"  —  and  then 
the  passage  flashed  like  lightning  across  my  mind 
— "  For  every  idle  word  that  men  shall  speak, 


170  THE   ANGEL   VISIT. 

they  shall  give  account  thereof  in  the  day  of  judg- 
ment." My  supernatural  visitant  here  addressed 
me  —  "  Dost  thou  observe  how  small  a  proportion 
thy  sins  of  Omission  bear  to  those  of  Commission  ?  " 
As  he  spoke,  he  pointed  me  to  instances  like  the 
following  —  "I  was  hungry  and  ye  gave  me  no 

O  O    t/  */  O 

meat."  "  I  was  thirsty,  and  ye  gave  me  no  drink." 
"  I  was  sick  and  ye  did  not  visit  me."  I  was 
conscience-stricken.  In  another  part  of  the  record, 
I  read  the  title,  "  Duties  performed."  Alas  !  how 
small  was  their  number !  Humble  as  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  think  the  estimate  of  my  good  works, 
I  was  greatly  disappointed  to  perceive  that  many 
performances  on  which  I  had  looked  back  with 
pride,  were  omitted,  "  because  "  my  visitor  inform- 
ed me  "  the  motive  was  impure."  It  was,  how- 
ever, with  feelings  of  the  most  affecting  gratifica- 
tion I  read  beneath  this  record,  small  as  it  was, 
"  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  the  least  of 
these  my  brethren,  ye  hath  done  it  to  me."  "  Who- 
soever shall  give  a  cup  of  cold  water  only  in  the 
name  of  a  disciple,  he  shall  in  no  wise  lose  his  re- 
ward." 

Whilst  I  gazed  on  many  other  similar  records, 
such  was  the  intense  feeling  which  seemed  to  be 
awakened  within  me,  that  my  brain  g^ow  dizzy  — 


THE   ANGEL   VISIT.  171 

my  eyes  became  dim.  I  was  awakened  from  this 
state  by  the  touch  of  my  supernatural  instructor, 
who  pointed  me  to  the  volume  in  which  I  had  read 
my  own  terrible  history,  now  closed,  and  bearing  a 
seal,  on  which  with  sickening  heart  I  read  the  in- 
scription—  "  Reserved  until  the  day  of  judgment."' 
"  And  now,"  said  the  angel,  "  my  commission  is 
completed.  Thou  hast  been  permitted  what  was 
never  granted  to  man  before.  What  thinkest  thou 
of  the  record  ?  Dost  thou  not  justly  tremble  ? 
How  many  a  line  is  here, '  which  dying,  you  would 
wish  to  blot  ? '  I  see  you  already  shuddering  at 
the  thought  of  the  disclosure  of  this  volume  at  the 
day  of  judgment,  when  an  assembled  world  shall 
listen  to  its  contents.  But  if  such  be  the  record 
of  one  year,  what  must  be  the  guilt  of  your  ivhole . 
life  ?  Seek  then,  an  interest  in  the  blood  of  Christ, 
justified  by  which,  you  shall  indeed  hear  the  repe- 
tition, but  not  to  condemnation.  Pray  that  when 
the  other  books  are  opened,  your  name  may  be 
found  in  the  book  of  life.  And  see  the  volume 
prepared  for  the  history  of  another  year  — -  yet  its 
page  is  unsullied.  Time  is  before  thee  —  seek  to 
improve  it.  Privileges  are  before  thee  —  may  they 
prove  the  gate  of  Heaven !  Judgment  is  before 
thee  —  prepare  to  meet  thy  God."  He  turned  to 


172  THE    ROSE-BELL. 

depart  —  and  as  I  seemed  to  hear  the  rustling 

which  announced  his  flight,  I  awoke.  Was  it  all  a 
drean  ?  H-  s- 


THE  ROSE-BELL. 

ABOVE  her  lone  and  lowly  tomb, 
Like  sorrow's  incense  o'er  the  dead, 

Shedding  its  fresh  and  sweet  perfume, 
The  rose-bell  droops  its  pensive  head, 
For  youth  and  beauty  fled ! 

When  summer  winds,  with  plaintive  sigh, 
Breathe  gentle  requiems  round  the  bier, 

The  dew-drops  'neath  the  placid  sky 
Fall  sadly  as  a  lover's  tear 
For  one  who  sleepeth  there. 

And  when  the  wind  with  roughened  swell 
Sweeps  wildly  past  the  house  of  death, 

The  flu  weret  shakes  each  tiny  bell, 
Ami  peals  a  soft  and  solemn  knell 
O'er  her  whi  rests  beneath. 

A.  WM.  SILLOWAY,  F.  R,  & 


THE    ANGEL    OF    HUMANITY.  173 


THE  ANGEL  OF  HUMANITY. 

"  I  WAS  standing  in  the  street  of  a  large  city. 
It  was  a  cold,  bleak  winter's  day.  There  had 
been  rain  ;  and  although  the  sun  was  shining  bright- 
ly, yet  the  long  icicles  hung  on  the  eaves  of  the 
houses,  and  the  wheels  hmibered  loudly  as  they 
passed  over  the  ground.  There  was  a  clear,  bright 
look,  and  a  cold,  bracing  feeling  in  the  air,  and  a 
keen  north-west  wind  quickening  every  step.  Just 
then  a  little  girl  came  running  along,  —  a  poor,  ill- 
clad  child  ;  her  clothes  were  scant  and  threadbare  ; 
she  had  no  cloak  and  no  shawl,  and  her  little  bare 
feet  looked  red  and  suffering.  She  could  not  have 
been  more  than  eight  years  old.  She  carried  a 
bundle  in  her  hand.  Poor  little  shivering  child. 
As  she  passed  me  her  foot  slipped  and  she  fell  with 
a  cry  of  pain ;  but  she  held  the  bundle  in  her 
hand,  and  jumping  up,  although  she  limped  sadly, 
endeavored  to  run  as  before. 

"  '  Stop,  little  girl,  stop,'  said  a  sweet  face  ;  and 
a  beautiful  woman,  wrapped  in  a  shawl  and  with 
furs  around  her,  came  out  of  a  jeweller's  store 
close  by.  '  Poor  little  child,'  said  she,  '  are  you 
hurt  ?  Sit  down  on  this  step  and  tell  me.' 


174  THE   ANGEL   OF   HUMANITY. 

"  How  I  loved  her,  and  how  beautiful  she  look- 
ed ! 

"  0,  I  cannot,'  said  the  child  ;  '  I  cannot  wait  — 
I  am  in  such  a  hurry.  I  have  been  to  the  shoe- 
maker's, and  mother  must  finish  this  work  to-night 
or  she  will  never  get  any  more  shoes  to  bind.' 

"  '  To-night,'  said  the  beautiful  woman,  *  to- 
night ? ' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  the  child  — for  the  stranger's  kind 
manner  had  made  her  bold  — '  yes,  to-night ;  and 
these  satin  slippers  must  be  spangled  and  —  ' 

"  The  beautiful  woman  took  the  bundle  from  the 
child's  hand  and  unrolled  it.  —  You  do  not  know 
why  her  face  flushed  and  then  turned  pale,  but  I 
looked  into  the  bundle,  and  on  the  inside  of  a  slip- 
per I  saw  a  name,  a  lady's,  written  —  I  shall  not 
tell  it. 

"  And  where  does  your  mother  live,  little  girl  ?  " 

"  So  the  child  told  where,  and  then  she  told  her 
that  her  father  was  dead,  and  that  her  little  baby 
brother  was  sick,  and  that  her  mother  bound  shoes 
that  they  might  have  bread ;  but  that  sometimes 
they  were  very  cold,  and  that  her  mother  often- 
times cried  because  she  had  no  money  to  buy  milk 
for  her  little  sick  brother. 

"  And  the  lady's  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  she 


THE    ANGEL    OF   HUMANITY.  175 

rolled  "up  the  bundle  quickly  and  gave  it  to  the  lit- 
tle girl,  but  she  gave  her  nothing  else  —  no,  not 
even  a  sixpence,  and  turning  away  went  back  into 
the  store  from  which  she  had  just  come  out.  Pres- 
ently she  came  back,  and  stepping  into  a  handsome 
carriage,  rolled  off.  The  little  girl  looked  after 
her  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  her  feet  a  little 
colder  than  before,  ran  quickly  away. 

"  I  went  with  the  little  girl,  and  I  saw  her  to  a 
narrow  street,  and  into  a  small,  dark  room ;  I  saw 
her  sad,  faded  mother,  but  with  face  so  sweet,  so 
patient,  hushing  and  soothing  her  sick  baby.  And 
the  baby  slept,  and  the  mother  laid  it  on  her  lap, 
and  the  bundle  was  unrolled,  and  a  dim  candle 
helped  her  with  her  work ;  for  though  it  was  not 
night,  yet  her  room  was  very  dark.  Then,  after  a 
while,  she  kissed  her  little  girl  and  bade  her  warm 
her  feet  over  the  scanty  fire  in  the  grate,  and  then 
gave  her  a  little  piece  of  bread,  for  she  had  no 
more  ;  then  she  heard  her  say  her  evening  prayer, 
and  blessed  her,  and  told  her  that  the  angels  would 
take  care  of  her. 

"  And  the  little  child  slept  and  dreamed,  such 
pleasant  dreams,  of  warm  stockings,  and  shoes ;  but 
the  mother  sewed  on  alone.  And  as  the  bright 
spangles  glittered  on  the  satin  slippers,  came  there 


176  THE    ANGEL    OF   HUMANITY. 

no  repinings  into  the  heart  ?  When  she  thought 
of  the  little  child's  bare,  cold  feet,  and  of  the  scant 
morsel  of  dry  bread  which  had  not  satisfied  her 
hunger,  came  there  no  visions  of  a  bright  room  and 
gorgeous  clothing,  and  a  table  loaded  with  all  that 
was  good  and  nice,  a  little  portion  of  which,  spared 
to  her,  could  send  warmth  and  comfort  to  her  hum 
ble  dwelling  ? " 

If  such  thoughts  as  these  came,  and  others  of  a 
pleasant  cottage,  and  one  who  had  dearly  loved 
her,  and  whose  strong  arm  had  kept  want  and 
trouble  from  her  and  her  babes,  but  who  could 
never  come  back ;  if  these  thoughts  did  come  re- 
piningly,  there  also  came  others,  and  the  widow's 
hands  were  clasped  and  her  head  bowed  low  in 
deep  contrition  as  I  heard  her  say, 

"  '  Father,  forgive  me,  for  Thou  doest  all  things 
well  —  I  will  trust  Thee.' 

"  Just  then  the  door  opened  softly,  and  some 
one  entered.  She  went  to  the  bed,  where  the 
sleeping  child  lay,  and  covered  it  with  warm  blank- 
ets. Then  there  came  coal,  and  presently  a  fire 
blazed  and  sparkled  there,  such  as  the  old  grate 
had  seldom  known  before.  Then  a  loaf  was  upon 
the  table,  and  fresh  milk  for  the  sick  babe.  Then 
she  passed  gently  before  the  mother,  and  drawing 


THE    ANGEL    OF   HUMANITY.  177 

the  unfinished  slipper  from  her  hand,  placed  there 
a  purse,  and  said  in  a  sweet,  low  voice, 

"  '  Bless  thy  God,  who  is  the  God  of  the  father- 
less and  of  the  widow,'  "  and  she  was  gone. 

The  mother,  with  hands  clasped  and  streaming 
eyes,  blessed  her  God  who  had  sent  an  angel  to 
comfort  her.  I  then  went  to  a  bright  room,  where 
there  were  music,  and  smiles  and  joy ;  and  I  saw 
young  happy  faces,  and  beautiful  women  richly 
dressed  and  sparkling  with  jewels,  but  none  that  I 
knew,  until  one  passed  me  whose  dress  was  of  white. 
No  spangled  slipper  glistened  on  her  foot,  but  the 
beauty  of  holiness  had  so  glorified  her  face,  that  I 
felt  as  I  gazed  upon  her  that  she  was  almost  an 
angel." 


PEARLS  AND  PEBBLES. 

BE  frank  and  pure,  and  brave  and  true  ; 

True  to  thyself  and  heaven  ; 
And  be  thy  friends  the  gifted  few, 

And  be  thy  foes  —  forgiven. 

For  lovely  things  have  mercy  shown 
To  every  failing  but  their  own  ; 
And  every  woe  a  tear  may  claim, 
Except  an  erring  sister's  shame. 

BVBOM. 

12 


178  WHf    IS   HAPPY  ? 


WHO  IS  HAPPY? 

To  answer  this  question,  which  has  often  arisen 
in  my  mind,  I  wandered  forth  one  pleasant  morn 
in  June,  determined  ere  the  shades  of  night  should 
come  on,  to  find  one  being  that  was  happy.  As  I 
directed  my  steps  through  the  busy  streets  of  our 
thriving  village,  I  thought,  shall  I  not  find  among 
the  many  that  are  passing  to  and  fro,  one  whose 
every  feature  is  stamped  with  the  seal  of  true  hap- 
piness,—  one  whose  countenance  speaks  not  of 
care  or  anxiety  ? 

An  old  man  I  met,  who  seemed  bent  down  with 
age  :  time  had  left  deep  furrows  in  the  cheeks  of 
the  old  man,  and  tears  dimmed  his  almost  sightless 
eyes.  As  I  passed  him,  a  sigh  escaped  his  lips, 
and  he  muttered  to  himself  of  the  days  that  were. 

As  I  passed  one  after  another,  my  heart  sank 
within  me  at  the  prospect  of  finding  happiness  where 
all  seemed  striving  for  it  in  this  world's  goods. 

I  determined  to  leave  this  "  road  of  folly  "  and 
seek  in  some  lonely  lane,  open  field,  or  wood,  for 
happiness. 

I  then  turned  my  steps  toward  the  woods,  and 
after  wandering  about  for  some  time,  I  espied  a 


WHO    IS   HAPPY  ?  179 

woodman's  cot,  situated  on  a  little  eminence,  at  a 
short  distance  across  a  pleasant  field,  in  the  clear- 
ing of  the  woods.  Thither  I  directed  my  course. 
Just  before  I  reached  the  cot,  I  saw  two  little 
children  (the  elder  a  little  boy  of  some  eight  or 
nine  years  ;  the  other  a  bright  black-eyed  little 
girl,)  sporting  before  the  door  with  a  pet  dog,  which 
they  called  Rover.  I  thought,  as  I  saw  them  jump- 
ing and  skipping  about,  their  countenances  beam- 
ing with  pleasure  —  surely,  here  may  happiness  be 
found.  But,  alas !  when  I  asked  them  if  they 
were  not  happy  in  this  their  wild-wood  home,  a 
shade  of  sadness  quickly  dispelled  the  glad  sun- 
shine, and  they  answered,  while  tears  filled  their 
eyes,  "  We  were  happy  once,  but  we  are  orphans 
now,  with  no  one  to  love  or  care  for  us  but  our 
Rover  ! " 

After  trying  to  comfort  them  for  the  burst  of 
grief  which  I  had  occasioned,  I  bade  them  adieu, 
and  retracing  my  steps,  I  set  my  face  homeward, 
with  this  inquiry  still  on  my  mind,  Who  is  Happy? 

A.  w.  a. 


180  AT   HOME  !     AT   HOME  ! 


AT  HOME  !    AT  HOME  ! 

Where  burns  the  fireside  brightest, 

Cheering  the  social  breast  ? 
Where  beats  the  fond  iieart  lightest, 

Its  humble  hope  possessed? 
Where  is  the  hour  of  sadness 

With  meek-eyed  patience  borne  ? 
Worth  more  than  those  of  gladness, 

Which  mirth's  gay  cheeks  adorn ! 
Pleasure  is  marked  with  fleetness 

To  those  who  ever  roam, 
While  grief  itself  hath  sweetness 
At  home  —  sweet  home  ! 

There  blend  the  ties  that  strengthen. 

Our  hearts  in  hours  of  grief — 
The  silver  links  that  lengthen 

Joy's  visits  when  most  brief; 
There,  eyes  in  all  their  splendor 

Are  vocal  to  the  heart, 
And  glances,  bright  and  tender, 

Fresh  eloquence  impart ; 
Then  dost  thou  sigh  for  pleasure  ? 

O,  do  ngt  widely  roam, 
But  seek  that  hidden  treasure 

At  home  —  sweet  home ! 

Does  pure  religion  charm  thee, 
Far  more  than  aught  below  * 

Wouldst  thou  that  she  should  arm  thee 
Against  the  hour  of  woe  1 


THE    BLIND    BOY.  181 

Her  dwelling  is  not  only 

In  temples  built  for  prayer, 
For  home  itself  is  lonely, 

Unless  her  smiles  be  there; 
Wherever  we  may  wander, 

'Tis  all  in  vain  we  roam, 
If  worshipless  her  ahar 

At  home  —  sweet  home  I 


THE  BLIND  BOY. 

Just  at  an  aged  birch  tree's  foot, 
A  little  boy  and  girl  reclined ; 

His  hand  in  hers  she  kindly  put--'. 
And  then  I  saw  the  boy  was  blind. 

"  Dear  Mary,"  said  the  poor  blind  boy, 
"That  little  bird  sings  very  long; 

Say,  do  you  see  him  in  his  jov, 
And  is  he  pretty  as  his  sony  V  " 

"  Yes,  Edward,  yes,"  replied  the  maid, 
"  I  see  the  bird  on  yonder  tree ; " 

The  poor  boy  sighed,  and  gently  said, 
"  Sister,  I  wish  that  I  could  see. 

"  The  flowers  you  say  are  very  fair, 
And  bright  green  leaves  are  on  the  trees, 

And  pretty  birds  are  singing  there  — 
How  beautiful  for  one  who  sees ! 


182  THE   BLIND   BOY. 

"  Yet  I  the  fragrant  flower  can  smell, 
And  I  can  feel  the  green  leaf's  shade ; 

And  I  can  hear  the  notes  that  swell 

From  those  dear  birds  that  God  has  made, 

"  So,  sister,  God  to  me  is  kind, 
Though  sight,  alas !  He  has  not  given : 

But  tell  me,  are  there  any  blind, 

Among  the  children  up  in  heaven  ?  " 

"  No,  dearest  Edward ;  there  all  see ; 

But  wherefore  ask  a  thing  so  odd  ?  " 
a  O  Mary,  He's  so  good  to  me, 

I  thought  I'd  like  to  look  at  God." 

EPISCOPAL  RECORDER, 


"  REDEEMING    THE    TIME."  183 


"  REDEEMING  THE  TIME." 

It  is  the  end  of  one,  the  beginning  of  another 
year ;  the  sealing  up  of  the  past,  the  opening  of  the 
future  ;  an  era  in  probation  ;  a  crisis,  it  may  be,  in 
life,  of  death,  for  eternity.  How  fit  the  season, 
for  beginning  anew  the  great  work  of  "  REDEEMING 

THE   TIME." 

In  devout  thankfulness.  Another  year  our  lives 
have  been  spared,  and  we  surrounded  with  God's 
mercies.  Life,  health,  food,  ra.ment,  society, 
friends,  the  joyous  flowers,  and  ripening  harvests 
—  all  these  God  has  given.  He  has  blessed  us 
publicly,  in  our  country,  and  personally,  in  our 
families  ;  and  continued  to  us  Sabbaths  and  means 
of  grace,  and  the  offers  of  salvation  through  his 
Son.  "  Every  good  and  perfect  gift  cometh  down 
from  Him."  "  Bless"  then,  "  the  Lord,  0  our 
souls,  and  forget  not  all  his  benefits." 

As  a  time  of  serious  reckoning.  Anticipating 
the  final  day,  let  us  search  and  try  our  ways,  and 
prepare  for  the  account  of  our  stewardship.  An- 
other year  has  fled.  How  have  we  spent  it  ?  It 
has  given  us  time;  have  we  redeemed  it?  Sab- 
baths ;  have  we  improved  them  ?  Divine  truth ; 


184  "  REDEEMING  THE    TIME." 

have  we  made  it  a  savor  of  life  ?  Mercies  ;  have 
they  led  to  repentance  ?  Afflictions ;  have  they 
been  sanctified  ?  Seasons  for  prayer ;  have  they 
found  us  at  the  throne  of  grace  ?  Opportunities  ; 
have  we  made  the  most  of  them?  A  continued 
probation;  have  we  spent  it  in  working  out  our 
salvation,  in  blessing  man,  and  glorifying  God  ? 

As  a  time  of  de&p  humiliation.  Side  by  side 
with  the  mercies  of  the  past,  rise  up  also  its  sins; 
sins  of  thought,  feeling,  motive,  conduct,  omission, 
commission,  enough  to  humble  us  in  the  very  dust 
before  God.  Let  us  not  close  our  eyes  to  these 
sins  ;  but,  like  Pharaoh's  chief  butler,  Confess,  "  I 
do  remember  my  faults  this  day  ;  "  and  like  the 
penitent  Peter,  as  "  we  think  thereon,"  let  us 
"  weep."  Looking  away  from  the  failing  of  others  ; 
let  us  ponder  our  own.  And  let  the  burden  of  our 
grief  be,  that  "  against  God  we  have  sinned :  "  the 
burden  of  our  prayer,  that  he  would  "  be  merciful 
to  us !  " 

As  a  time  of  solemn  resolutions.  As  God  is 
turning  over  a  new  leaf  in  the  book  of  judgment, 
how  proper  that  we  do  the  same  in  our  plans  of 
life.  How  becoming  are  new  resolutions  for  a  new 
year  —  solemn  purposes  for  so  solemn  a  season. 
With  Elisha,  then,  let  us  resolve,  "  If  we  have 


"REDEEMING  THE  TIME."  '185 

done  iniquity,  we  will  do  so  no  more."  Let  us 
aim,  in  the  future,  to  be  wiser,  happier,  holier, 
more  humble,  obedient,  watchful,  and  prayerful, 
than  in  the  past ;  more  carefully  to  avoid  evil  hab- 
its and  form  good  ones,  to  seek  for  higher  attain- 
ments and  for  greater  progress  in  the  divine  life. 
Knowing  the  uncertainty  of  all  future  time,  let  us 
resolve, 

"  To  seize  the  present  moment,  as  it  flies, 
And  stamp  the  marks  of  wisdom  on  its  wings ; 
To  let  it  not  elude  our  grasp  ;  but,  like 
The  good  old  patriarch  of  God's  holy  word, 
Hold  the  fleet  angel  fast  until  he  bless  us ! " 

Let  us  "  live  with  our  might  while  we  do  live," 
and  "  continually  do  whatever  is  most  for  the  glory 
of  God,  and  our  own  good,  profit,  and  pleasure, 
whether,  now,  or  never  so  many  myriads  of  ages 
hence." 

As  a  time  for  salutary  fear.  "  This  year  thou 
shalt  die,"  may  be  written  of  us.  Let  us  live  as 
if  it  were ;  for  "  the  time  is  short,"  and  "  we  know 
not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth."  Let  us  then 
fear,  lest  we  fall  into  temptation  or  a  snare,  or  be 
found  idle,  and  unprepared  when  our  Lord  shall 
come ;  lest  a  promise  being  left  us  of  entering  into 
his  rest,  any  one  of  us  should  ever  seem  to  come 


186  "  REDEEMING   THE   TIME." 

short  of  it.  Do  all  that  we  can  to  stand,  and  then 
fear  lest  we  fall,  and  by  the  grace  of  God  we  are 
safe. 

As  a  time  of  earnest  prayer.  Without  this,  all 
else  is  in  vain  —  in  vain  our  thankfulness,  self-ex- 
amination, humility, -purposes,  and  fears,  if  unat- 
tended with  God's  blessing.  To  him,  then,  let  us 
send  up  the  heart-felt  petition,  "  So  teach  us  to 
number  our  days,  that  we  apply  our  hearts  unto 
wisdom."  Standing  between  the  unchanging  past 
and  the  unknown  future,  let  our  language  be, 

"  Thanks,  for  mercies  past,  receive ; 

Pardon  of  our  sins  renew ; 
Teach  us  henceforth  how  to  live, 
With  eternity  in  view  !  " 

Let  us  not  so  much  pray  to  live  long,  as  well ; 
not  so  much  for  the  increase  of  our  days,  as  of  our 
graces ;  for  the  extension  of  our  time,  as  of  our 
usefulness ;  that  we  may  live  for  the  good  of  men, 
and  the  glory  of  God.  Such  be  our  prayer,  and 
effort  too,  and  we  shall  "  redeem  the  time "  to 
wise  purposes,  holy  aims,  and  blessed  ends.  And 
whether  another  year  finds  us  in  time  or  eternity, 
it  will  be  well  with  us  forever.  Our  time  will  have 
been  so  redeemed  that  our  eternity  will  be  for  ever 
blessed.  T.  E, 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR.      187 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

Methinks  the  departing  year  hath  a  voice  for 
you  also,  little  children,  as  well  as  others.  As  he 
pauses  to  bid  farewell  to  earth  and  its  inhabitants, 
I  see  him  gaze  with  a  sad  but  kind  earnestness 
upon  those  rosy  cheeked  groups  hastening  to  school; 
those  happy  young  daughters  prattling  by  the  side 
of  their  mother  ;  those  restless  boys  by  their  father's 
knee,  with  minds  thirsting  for  knowledge  and  limbs 
eager  for  action.  I  see  the  Old  Year  turn  his  eye 
alike  upon  the  studious  circles  seated  on  benches 
and  the  mirth-loving  multitudes  by  way-side  or  fire- 
side, in  fields  and  in  gardens,  and  he  speaks  to 
each  as  if  he  called  him  by  name.  Like  some 
venerable  preacher  about  to  go  into  a  far  country 
never  to  return,  he  gathers  the  little  ones  of  the 
flock  around  him,  and  bids  them  remember  his 
parting  words.  Hark !  like  the  sigh  of  the  even- 
ing wind,  like  the  murmur  of  the  distant  stream,  I 
hear  his  solemn  voice.  The  warm  hearts  and  the 
light  hearts  of  childhood  beat  quicker  and  grow 
thoughtful  as  he  proceeds  with  his  earnest  ques- 
tions. 

"  Children   "  says  the  departing  year,  "  do  you 


188  THE   VOICE   OF  THE    OLD   YEafl. 

know  that  there  is  a  God,  who  &jade  the  heavens 
and  the  earth,  and  all  things ;  <*nd  that  tie  is  not 
only  the  greatest,  but  the  wisest,  the  most  lovely, 
and  the  host  of  all  beings  ?  Do  you  know  that  he 
is  everywhere  present,  that  he  sees  not  only  your 
actions,  but  hears  every  whispered  word,  and  knows 
your  secret  thoughts  ? 

"  You  are  now  living,  full  of  hope  and  joy,  and 
surrounded  with  blessings.  A  short  time  ago  you 
were  not.  It  was  God  who  culled  you  into  being, 
and  who  graciously  styles  himself  your  Father. 
He  made  you  to  love  and  .serve  him,  and  has  com- 
manded you  to  remember  him  in  the  days  of  your 
youth.  Have  you  listened  when  he  spoke  ?  Have 
you  come  when  he  called  ?  Have  you  sought  to 
become  acquainted  with  him  and  to  obtain  his  fa- 
vor ?  Have  you  daily  praised  him  for  all  his  won- 
derful works,  and  rendered  him  hearty  thanks  for 
all  his  good  gifts  ?  What  have  you  done  for  the 
good  of  others  ?  Who  has  been  made  better  by 
your  exertions  ? 

"  Do  you  know  that  God  is  holy,  and  looks  with 
displeasure  upon  sin  ?  And  are  you  not  sinful  ? 
Do  you  not  every  day  think  and  do  many  things 
amiss,  and  provoke  the  great  God  to  be  angry  with 
you?  And  are  you  willing  to  endure  his  anger 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    OLD    YEAR.  189 

for  ever?  Will  you  not  come  now  and  entreat 
him,  for  the  sake  of  Christ  his  Son,  who  died  for 
man,  to  pardon  your  offences  ?  Sweet  it  is  to  be 
at  peace  with  God.  Blessed  is  the  man  that  re- 
pents of  his  evil  ways,  that  forsakes  his  sin,  and 
that,  through  faith  in  Christ,  obtains  mercy. 

'  Joy  to  the  world,  the  Lord  is  come  ! ' 

Through  Christ  the  fountain  of  forgiveness,  peace 
and  eternal  happiness,  is  kept  unsealed,  and  for 
ever  full  and  flowing,  and  little  children,  with  even 
more  tenderness  than  others,  are  invited  to  come 
and  drink,  and  live  for  ever. 

"  I  -am  now,"  continued  the  slow  sad  voice  of 
the  Old  Year,  "  about  to  leave  you.  I  have  carried 
you  one  year  farther  along  the  path  of  life,  one 
year  nearer  the  end  of  your  great  journey.  I 
have  kept  a  faithful  record  of  your  lives  from  da/ 
to  day  and  from  hour  to  hour,  in  characters  more 
durable  than  those  that  the  steel  cuts  into  brass  or 
marble,  and  it  is  laid  up  in  heaven  to  be  produced 
when  you  stand  before  the  judgment-seat. 

"  You  cannot  live  always.  The  time  will  come 
when  you  must  die.  Your  bodies  will  be  laid  in 
the  grave  to  moulder  into  dust,  while  your  spirits 
will  be  called  to  appear  before  the  throne  on  high, 


190      THE  VOICE  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

where  you  will  see  the  books  opened  and  hear  /om 
final  sentence  pronounced  by  the  Son  of  God,  the 
great  Judge  of  all.  Is  that  Judge  your  friend  ? 
Will  he  throw  his  everlasting  arms  around  you  as 
a  shield  in  that  awful  moment,  if  you  reject  his 
grace  when  it  is  freely  offered  ? 

"  See  to  it,  then,  my  readers,  that  the  next 
year  shall  bear  a  better  report  to  heaven,  concern- 
ing you,  than  the  past.  Go  and  sit  at  the  feet  of 
Him  who  was  meek  and  lowly  in  heart,  until  you 
imbibe  the  same  heavenly  temper.  Go  and  hearken 
to  the  still  small  voice  of  the  Holy  Spirit  whisper- 
ing in  your  hearts,  and  bidding  you  give  the  dew 
of  your  youth  to  God.  Go  -and  yield  to  your 
parents  and  teachers,  love  and  honor,  submission 
and  cheerful  obedience.  Go  and  forsake  sin  — 
worship  God  —  hallow  the  Sabbath  —  study  the 
Scriptures  —  visit  the  poor  and  the  sick  —  and 
with  all  your  might  labor  to  bring  men  from  the 
broad  road  to  ruin  into  the  safe  and  narrow  way  of 
eternal  life.  Even  a  child  may  save  a  soul." 

The  voice  ceased,  and  the  Old  Year  was  no 
more.  Like  the  rushing  of  the  surge'  over  the 
sands  that  breaks  and  then  dies  slowly  away,  was 
the  sound  of  his  wings  as  he  spread  them  for  flight 
and  then  dropped  into  the  silent  bosjm  of  the  past. 


THE    VOICE    OF   THE   OLD    YEAR.  191 

The  little  ones  to  "whom  he  had  spoken,  went  on 
-  their  various  ways  with  downcast  eyes  and  slow 
steps,  and  methought  I  heard  each  one  resolving 
in  his  heart  —r-  This  year  I  will  live  the  life  of  a 
true  Christian. 


There  is  a  Grecian  allegory  from  which  we  may 
derive  an  instructive  lesson  for  January,  or  that 
point  of  time  when  the  Old  Year  is  dying  and  the 
New  Year  begins  its  course,  bright  and  joyful,  full 
of  life  and  hope.  And  here  we  may  remark  that 
it  is  well  to  know  something  respecting  the  false 
religions  of  ancient  nations,  that  we  may  see  how 
far  they  were  from  true  wisdom,  and  how  great  was 
the  necessity  of  a  divine  revelation  to  lead  men 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  truth. 

Janus  was  the  fabulous  deity,  from  whom  the 
month  of  January,  the  period  when  we  enter  upon 
a  New  Year,  derives  its  name.  He  is  always  re- 
"  presented  with  two  faces  looking  in  opposite  direc- 
tions, one  backward  as  if  retracing  the  events  of 
the  past  year,  the  other  forward  in  thoughtful  anti- 
cipation of  the  future.  What  an  interesting  sym- 
bol !  How  full  of  instruction  and  beauty  !  This 
is  indeed  but  a  pagan  image,  and  Christianity  among 


192      THE  VOICE  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

its  numerous  blessings  has  freed  us  from  the  bond- 
age of  believing  in  the  wild  fables  and  strange 
gods  of  the  heathen.  Who  is  it  that  can  alone 
contemplate  the  past  with  minute  accuracy  and 
the  future  without  shadow  of  error  ?  Who  can 
look  backward  through  a  past  eternity  and  forward 
through  everlasting  ages  ?  Not? "  the  gods  many 
and  lords  many  "  of  the  heathen,  but  He  only  who, 
before  time  was,  could  say  /  am,  and  who  will 
ever  exist  without  change. 

Yet  there  is  an  excellent  moral  woven  into  this 
fable  of  Janus,  and  if  the  month  of  January,  as 
often  as  it  returns,  would  forcibly  impress  it  upon 
our  minds,  it  might  come  with  rich  blessings  to  us. 
It  counsels  us  to  pause  in  our  career  :  to  live  over 
the  past  year  in  deep  reflection,  and  with  thought- 
ful solicitude  gather  up  the  rich  seeds  of  truth  and 
wisdom  that  have  been  dropped,  in  order  to  sow 
them  and  obtain  a  harvest  for  the  coming  year. 
The  recollections  of  the  past,  the  fond  review  of 
joys  and  sorrows,  labors  and  dangers  that  are  now 
no  more,  is  indeed  of  use  to  us,  only  as  it  serves  to 
influence  our  future  conduct  and  guide  us  through 
the  untried  paths  upon  which  we  are  entering. 
The  past  is  the  school  of  experience  out  of  which 
we  ought  to  be  wiser  and  better  each  revolving 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE    OLD   YEAR.  193 

year.  The  power  of  retrospection  was  given  ua 
that  we  might  glean,  from  the  backward  view,  warn- 
ings and  admonitions  to  prevent  us  from  falling 
again  into  past  errors,  and  counsels  to  direct  us  in 
the  pursuit  of  future  good.  The  torches  that  were 
left  burning  along  the  wayside  of  the  year  that  has 
been,  ought  to  cast  some  gleams  of  light  upon  the 
darkness  and  uncertainty  of  the  year  that  is  to  be. 
The  poet  speaks  wisely  when  he  tells  us 

"  To  make  each  year  a  critic  on  the  last." 

Would  not  every  one's  character  be  improved  by 
such  a  course  ?  Is  it  wise  to  glide  along  through 
life  in  a  careless,  rash  or  random  manner,  without 
reflection  or  forethought,  the  victims  of  chance  and 
circumstance  ?  No  :  let  us  take  the  hint  suggest- 
ed by  January,  and  begin  the  year  with  a  fixed 
determination  to  improve  upon  the  past,  to  be 
guided,  not  by  contingencies,  not  by  the  example 
of  others,  but  by  a  resolute  purpose  to  act  well  our 
part,  to  seek  truth  and  do  that  which  is  right. 

The  fable  of  Janus  with  its  beautiful  and  in- 
structive moral  would  lead  thus  far ;  but  if  we  turn 
to  higher  authority  we  shall  find  that  the  divine 
word  attaches  still  greater  importance  to  a  review 
of  the  past. 

13 


194      THE  VOICE  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

Three  times  a  year  were  the  Jews  commanded 
to  hold  solemn  festivals  in  commemoration  of  former 
events.  At  the  first  they  were  to  retrace  all  the 
circumstances  connected  with  their  deliverance 
from  Egypt.  At  the  second  the  glorious  and  aw- 
ful display  of  the  mercy  and  power  of  God  that 
accompanied  the  giving  of  the  law.  The  third  was 
devoted  to  a  review  of  the  history  of  their  long 
abode  in  the  desert.  There  is  always  some  degree 
•of  sadness  in  the  memory  of  the  past,  but  these 
celebrations  were  of  a  joyful  more  than  a  melan- 
choly character  ;  and  why  ?  Because  they  were 
not  only  to  look  backward,  but  forward,  to  rely 
with  happy  faith  on  the  divine  promise,  and  to  re- 
joice hi  the  prospect  of  that  day  of  universal  joy, 
when  the  appointed  ONE  should  appear,  in  whom 
all  the  nations  of  the  earth  were  to  be  blessed. 

Moses,  the  great  leader  of  the  Jews,  finding  his 
end  near  at  hand,  assembled  the  people  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  reviewing  with  them  the  history 
of  the  past,  this  being  the  best  preparation  for  their 
future  course.  From  this  armory  they  Avere  to  be 
furnished  with  shields  and  spears  for  future  con 
flict.  The  whole  book  of  Deuteronomy  is  a  divine- 
ly wrought  monument,  showing  the  value  of  retro- 
spection ;  but  yet  connected  with  this  summary  of 


'THE  VOICE  OF  THE  OLD  YEAK.      195 

the  past  are  bright  anticipations  of  the  future,  and 
frequent  glimpses  of  those  blessings  which  accord- 
ing to  the  covenant  of  Jehovah  they  would  here- 
after inherit. 

Thus  we  see  that  both  reason  and  the  word  of 
God  call  upon  us  at  set  times  to  look  backward 
and  forward  with  peculiar  earnestness,  and  profit- 
ing by  the  experience  of  the  past  to  begin  our 
course  anew.  What  era  more  proper  for  this  than 
the  beginning  of  a  new  year  ?  What  guide,  what 
chart  for  the  way  so  safe,  so  sure  as  the  oracles  of 
God? 

Experience  is  said  to  be  the  mother  of  wisdom, 
but  it  is  only  when  she  leads  us  to  this  fountain  of 
true  wisdom  that  she  can  lay  claim  to  that  exalted 
character.  "  The  fear  of  the  Lord  is  the  begin- 
ning of  wisdom."  "  Wisdom  is  the  principal  thing." 
"  She  shall  give  to  thine  head  an  ornament  of  grace 
—  a  crown  of  glory  shall  she  deliver  to  thee." 

i\  M.  c. 


196  HOME  —  A  MOTHER'S  DEATH. 


HOME  — A  MOTHER'S  DEATH. 

I  see  thee  yet  again,  my  home  !  thou'rt  there  amidst  thy  vines, 
And  >clear  upon  thy  gleaming  root  the  light  of  summer  shines. 

MRS.  HEMANS. 

Home !  What  a  magic  power  dwells  in  that 
little  word !  Breathe  it  in  the  ear  of  decrepit  old 
age,  and  in  a  moment  the  dim  curtain  of  time  rises 
—  the  bright,  unfading,  sunny  scenes  of  happy, 
innocent  childhood  are  spread  out  before  the  men- 
tal vision  in  all  their  witching  loveliness  and  per- 
fection !  The  sluggish-moving  current  of  life  quick- 
ens its  motion,  and  the  whole  being  seems  reno- 
vated with  the  spring-time  of  existence.  Again  is 
he  in  that  dear  childhood's  home  —  surrounded 
with  the  playmates  of  youth,  and  blest  with  the 
genial  warmth  of  parental  love  and  tenderness. 
Loving  eyes  are  beaming  on  his  path,  and  faithful 
hearts,  in  which  there  is  no  deception  lurking,  are 
giving  words  of  counsel  and  advice.  The  same 
sweet  music,  which  charmed  his  boyhood's  hours, 
is  floating  around  him,  filling  his  innocent  heart 
with  love  and  gratitude  to  the  Great  Creator. 
There  flows  the  murmuring  streamlet,  close  beside 
his  father's  door — where,  beneath  the  wide-spread- 


HOME  —  A  MOTHER'S  DEATH.  197 

ing  branches  of  his  favorite  shade-tree,  so  many 
blissful,  carelese  hours  were  spent.  The  shouts  of 
joy,  which  rang  out  on  the  breezes  of  heaven,  vi- 
brate on  the  ear  —  the  very  stones,  and  trees,  and 
paths  are  all  unchanged.  Yes,  and  even  there,  in 
that  old  poplar  at  the  front  door,  sits  the  dear  old 
Robin  pouring  out  her  cheering  notes  of  "  cheer 
up  —  cheer  up"  — in  rich  cadence  on  the  listen- 
ing ear  !  —  0,  home  !  home  !  childhood's  home  — 
thou  art  hallowed  by  the  deathless  love  of  a  dear, 
departed,  angel-Mother!  Oh,  how  precious  is  her 
every  word  and  look,  treasured  in  the  store-house 
of  memory !  With  what  deep,  unwearied  love  did 
she  watch  over  and  guard  her  dependent  house- 
hold in  sickness  and  in  health  —  in  joy  and  sorrow 
—  unmindful  of  self,  ready  ever  to  sacrifice  case 
and  enjoyment  to  contribute  to  the  comfort  and 
happiness  of  all  around  her.  But  she  has  gone  — 
gone,  (but,  blessed  be  God,  not  lost,)  with  a  vast 
debt  of  love  and  gratitude  uncancelled  ! 

0,  that  her  beatified  spirit  could  hover  o'er  this 
restless  head,  and  whisper  "forgiveness"  for  all 
my  past  ingratitude.  Art  thou  not,  freed  spirit, 
ever  near  to  bless  and  guard  thy  wandering,  er- 
ring child?  To  strengthen  her  resolves  —  to  nerve 
her  spirit  to  meet,  unshrinkingly,  the  ills  of  life 


198  HOME  —  A  MOTHER'S  DEATH. 

and  the  terrors  of  death !  Joyful  thought  —  thou 
shalt  be  ever  my  comforter  as  I  tread  the  rough 
paths  of  life !  Departed  one,  I'll  yet  hope  to  meet 
thee  where  there  will  be  no  more  separation  !  0, 
blissful  hope,  and  will  that  mother  recognize  and 
love  us  there  ?  Shall  we  be  permitted  to  pronounce 
that  name,  so  full  of  sweet  music  to  the  affection- 
ate heart—  Mother?  Oh!  "Tell  us,  thou  bird 
of  solemn  strain !  Can  those  who  have  loved  for- 
get ?  We  call  —  and  they  answer  not  again.  Do 
they  love  —  do  they  love  us  yet  ?  We  call  them 
far  through  the  night,  and  they  speak  not  from 
cave  or  hill.  We  know,  thou  bird  !  that  their  land 
is  bright.  But  say,  do  they  LOVE  there  still?" 

Yes  —  it  must  be  so !  Love  is  of  God.  It 
must,  then,  be  immortal !  A  Mother's  Love  will 
survive  the  chilling  blasts  of  death  —  the  wreck  of 
worlds !  It  is  an  emanation  from  the  great  foun- 
tain of  infinite  fulness  —  a  part  of  Deity  !  It  is 
that  principle,  which,  in  God's  own  appointed  time, 
shall  renovate  and  save  a  fallen,  sinful  world.  It 
is  that  principle  which  is  to. do  its  work,  silently 
but  perfectly,  in  the  minds  of  mankind,  until  all 
become  truly  and  spiritually  holy. 

Christ  shall  sit  as  a  refiner,  until  he  beholds  his 
own  blessed  image  reflected  in  every  soul  which 


HOME  —  A  MOTHER'S  DEATH.     199 

God  has  spoken  into  being.  "  He  shall  see  of  the 
travail  of  his  soul  and  be  satisfied !  "  His  own 
soft  hand  shall  wipe  the  tears 

"  From  every  weeping  eye, 
And  pains,  and  groans,  and  griefs,  and  fears, 
And  death  itself  shall  die  !  " 

Dear  Mother  — 

"  'T  is  there  we'll  meet,  at  Jesus'  feet, 
When  we  meet  to  part  no  more  !  " 

There  to  spend  an  eternity  in  praising  and  adoring 
our  Father  and  our  God  ! 

This  world  is  beautiful,  'tis  true  — 

But  there's  a  brighter  world  than  this 
Beyond  that  dome  of  wavy  blue,  — 

A  home  of  everlasting  bliss ; 
That  spirit  land,  whose  canopy 

Is  never  sullied  with  a  cloud ; 
Where,  clad  in  spotless  drapery, 

Saints  are  in  adoration  bow'd  ; 
A  myriad  band  of  vestals  raise 
Their  voices  in  Jehovah's  praise. 

u.   8.   0. 


200  LOSSES. 


LOSSES. 

Upon  the  white  sea-sand 

There  sat  a  pilgrim -band, 
Tilling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had  known, 

While  evening  waned  away 

From  breezy  cliff  and  bay, 
And  the  strong  tides  went  out  with  weary  moan. 

One  spake,  with  quivering  lip, 

Of  a  fair  freighted  ship, 
With  all  his  household  to  the  deep  gone  down  ; 

But  one  had  a  wilder  woe 

For  a  fair  face  long  ago 
Lost  in  the  darker  depths  of  a  great  town. 

There  were  who  mourned  their  youth 

With  a  most  loving  truth, 
For  its  brave  hopes  and  memories  ever  green ;  ' 

And  one  ttpon  the  West 

Turned  an  eye  that  would  not  rest 
For  far-off  hills  whereon  its  joy  had  been. 

Some  talked  of  vanished  gold, 

Some  of  proud  honors  told, 
Some  spake  of  friends  that  were  their  trust  no  more ; 

And  one  of  a  green  grave 

Beside  a  foreign  wave 
That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the  shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done, 
There  spake  among  them  one, 


CHRISTMAS   BRILLIANTS.  201 

A  stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free  — 

"  Sad  losses  have  ye  met, 

But  mine  is  heavier  yet, 
For  a  believing  heart  hath  gone  from  me." 

"  Alas !  "  these  pilgrims  said, 

"  For  the  living  and  the  dead, 
For  fortune's  cruelty,  for  love's  sure  cross, 

For  the  wrecks  of  land  and  sea ! 

But,  however  it  came  to  thee, 
Thine,  stranger,  is  life's  last  and  heaviestjoss." 

LONDON  ATHENAEUM. 


CHRISTMAS  BRILLIANTS. 

The  night  is  cold,  the  Year  is  old. 

The  pulse  of  time  is  beating  slowly ; 
But  Christmas  cheer,  to-night  is  near, 

And  Christmas  thoughts  are  high  and  holy  j 
We  weep  no  U'ars  for  dying  years  ; 

Be  theirs  of  life  the  common  story ; 
But  give  to  truth,  eternal  youth, 

And  crown  its  natal  day  with  glory. 

The  hearth  is  warm,  though  fierce  with  storm 

The  bitter  wind  without  be  blowing ; 
For  Christmas  time's  the  tropic  clime 

Of  hearts  with  cheerful  homage  glowing; 
The  winter  grieves  o'er  withered  leaves, 

And  leafless  branches  sigh  and  quiver; 
But  green  shall  be  our  CHRISTMAS  TREE, 

And  beautiful,  in  faith,  forever. 


202  HONOR   AMONG   BOYS. 


HONOR  AMONG  BOYS. 

If,  as  it  is  said,  there  is  "  honor  among  thieves," 
why  should  this  noble  quality  be  lacking  in  so  many 
little  boys  ? 

"  Boys  will  be  boys,"  said  one  in  reply  to  a  re- 
mark of  mine  on  this  subject.  This  I  know,  and 
do  not  desire-to  see  "  old  heads  upon  young  should- 
ers." What  I  want  is  to  beg  boys  to  be  govern- 
ed by  honor,  and  honesty,  in  their  dealings  with 
one  another. 

"  Why  don't  you  lend  your  skates  and  sled  to 
the  other  boys  when  you  are  not  using  them  ?  "  I 
have  asked,  and  been  answered,  "  Because  boys 
think  nothing  of  breaking  one  another's  things,  and 
sometimes  consider  it  smart,  and  then  laugh  at  you 
for  being  so  green  as  to  lend  them." 

"  But  don't  they  pay  the  damages  ?  " 

Now  was  my  turn  to  be  laughed  at  for  the  ab- 
surdity of  my  question.  "  Pay  damages  !  never  !  " 
This  grated  harshly  upon  a  mother's  ears,  and  I'll 
tell  you,  why.  Because  in  the  first  place  I  know 
how  much  a  boy  thinks  of  his  first  sled,  first  skates, 
and  first  pocket-knife.  Many  rich  men  who  live 
in  free-stone  palaces  in  New- York  will  confess  that 


HONOR  AMONG   BOYS.  203 

they  never  had  a  greater  prize  than  their  first  sled, 
with  its  bright  paint  and  well-ironed  runners,  and 
that  the  possession  of  skates  gave  them  many  sleep- 
less hours  of  delight.  Now  when  boys  know  so 
well  how  much  they  prize  their  own  things,  is  it 
not  very  much  like  stealing,  to  carelessly  injure 
another  boy's  property  and  make  no  effort  to  re- 
pair the  loss  ? 

"  But  how  can  a  boy  pay,  when  he  has  got  no 
money  ? "  I  hear  one  of  my  readers  say,  perhaps 
impatiently. 

He  can  go  home  and  tell  his  father  what  he  has 
done,  and  beg  him  to  give  him  the  means  of  re- 
pairing his  loss.  If  his  father  sees  fit  to  refuse  his 
request,  he  can  save  his  pennies  till  he  has  enough 
of  money  of  his  own ;  or  he  can  select  from  among 
his  playthings  something  worth  enough  to  pay  for 
the  harm  he  has  done,  even  if  he  has  to  give  away 
a  very  precious  toy.  If  he  is  too  poor  for  this  and 
has  a  little  Yankee  contrivance,  perhaps  he  can 
mend  the  injured  article  and  make  it  as  good  as 
new.  If  this  cannot  be  done,  he  can  go  to  his 
playmate,  and  say  he  is  very  sorry  for  the  acci- 
dent, and  that  he  is  not  able  to  repay  the  damages, 
and  then  show  his  sorrow  by  improving  the  first 
chance  to  do  his  injured  friend  a  favor.  He  will 


204  HONOR   AMONG   BOYS. 

not  have  to  wait  long  for  an  opportunity  to  show 
kindness  which  is  better  than  money. 

This  is  as  much  a  young  boy's  duty  as  it  will  be 
when  he  is  a  few  years  older,  and  accidentally  in- 
jures a  borrowed  horse  and  carriage,  to  repay  the 
owner  for  his  loss.  A  boy  who  will  break  another's 
knife,  lose  his  ball,  drop  his  new  book  in  the  mud, 
or  break  his  sled,  and  then  laugh  at  his  playmate's 
distress,  or  even  refuse  to  pay  him  in  some  way 
for  his  loss,  will  be  very  likely  to  make  a  forger, 
defaulter,  burglar,  or  perhaps  something  worse. 

A  mean  unfeeling  boy  is  a  sad,  hopeless  sight. 
Like  a  crooked,  dwarfed  young  tree,  nothing  grand 
or  noble  can  be  made  of  it.  Age  will  only  make 
it  more  ugly  and  despised. 

It  is  too  much  the  fashion  among  boys  to  scorn 
gentle,  loving  manners,  or  leave  their  sisters  to  learn 
such  ways,  while  they  try  to  be  what  they  call  men. 
A  boy  who  wishes  to  be  a  true  man,  "  the  noblest 
work  of  God,"  must  begin  while  he  is  young  to  be 
honest  and  honorable,  and  "do  as  he  would  be 
done  by,"  for  he  will  be  the  same  person  when  he 
grows  up  that  he  is  now,  only  stronger,  larger,  in 
mind  and  body,  and  better  able  to  do  good  or  evil. 
Let  us  by  all  means  have  "  honor  among  boys." 

M.    E.    W. 


THE   FIRST  ROBIN.  205 


THE  FIRST  ROBIN. 

I  heard  you,  little  robin, 
The  first  song  I  have  heard, 

Since  winter  came  upon  us  here,    - 
From  any  little  bird. 

I  heard  you,  little  robin, 

It  was  a  pleasant  sound, 
I  watched  your  little  russet  coat, 

In  all  the  garden  round. 

You  hopped  all  down  the  alleys, 

Then  perching  on  a  tree, 
You  poured  forth  from  your  little  throat 

A  burst  of  melody. 

You  chirped  about  and  twittered, 

And  then  you  flew  away ; 
But  you  will  come  again,  robin, 

When  comes  a  pleasant  day. 

Who  kept  you  all  the  winter, 
When  snow  was  everywhere, 

And  shielded  your  poor  little  form 
From  the  chill  frosty  air  ? 

Who  fed  you  in  the  dim,  dark  woods, 
And  sheltered  yon  from  harm  ? 

Who  taught  you  to  come  forth,  robin, 
Soon  as  the  days  were  warm  ? 


206       THE  ROBIN'S  APPEAL. 

Who  taught  you  such  a  cheerful  song? 

Tell  me,  dear  robin,  do ; 
Next  time  you  come  to  visit  me, 

I'll  listen  unto  you. 

C.  E.  R.  P. 


THE  ROBIN'S  APPEAL. 

O  kill  me  not ! 

Thou  thoughtless  boy, 
While  singing  here 

In  all  my  joy  ; 
'Tis  wicked  thus 

To  harm  me  now,  — 
Still  let  me  hop 

From  bough  to  bough. 

0  kill  me  not ! 

Life's  dear  to  me 
As  'tis  to  you, 

So  wild  and  free,  — 
Now  poised  in  air, 

Then  sailing  low,  — 
How  full  of  glee 

We  only  know. 

O  kill  us  not ! 

In  yonder  tree 
My  mate  and  I 

Have  nurslings  three; 


TRUE   LOVE.  t         207 

You  would  not,  sure, 

That  these  should  die 
For  want  of  food, 

Up  there  so  high ! 

O  let  us  live  ! 

And  day  by  day 
We'll  utter  thanks 

In  our  own  way ; 
We'll  surely  come 

Quite  near  your  door, 
And  sweetest  songs 

Sing  o'er  and  o'er. 

J.  M.  H, 


TKUE  LOVE. 

The  butterfly  gazed  on  the  beautiful  flower, 

And  fanned  it  with  her  wing ; 
The  rain  came  down  in  a  gentle  shower, 

And  watered  the  pretty  thing. 

The  lady-bird  flew  from  her  downy  home, 

To  nestle  on  its  breast ; 
The  dew  from  heaven  came  glistening  down, 

To  find  therein  her  rest. 

The  humming-bee  sped  from  her  waxen  cell, 

To  increase  her  honeyed  store ; 
And  from  the  flower  she  loved  so  well, 

Drew  sweetness  more  and  more. 


208  INFLUENCE. 

% 

When  the  sun  went  down,  the  meadow-fly 

With  her  little  lamp  came  near 
To  light  the  flower  modestly, 

To  shield  her  from  all  fear. 

O  ye,  who  boast  of  sterling  love ! 

O,  ye,  who  fain  would  win  it ! 
Go,  seek  the  flower  in  the  grave, 

And  read  the  lesson  in  it. 

MARY  WOODBIWB. 


INFLUENCE. 

Drop  follows  drop  and  swells 
With  rain  the  sweeping  river} 

Word  follows  word,  and  tells 
A  truth  that  lives  forever. 

Flake  follows  flake,  like  spirits 
Whose  wings  the  winds  dissever; 

Thought  follows  thought,  and  lights 
The  realm  of  mind  forever. 

Beam  follows  beam,  to  cheer 
The  cloud  the  bolt  would  shiver  j 

Throb  follows  throb,  and  fear 
Gives  place  to  joy  forever. 

The  drop,  the  flake,  the  beam, 

Teach  us  a  lesson  ever ; 
The  word,  the  thought,  the  dream, 

Impress  the  soul  forever. 


WORTH   OF   A   KISS.  209 


WORTH  OF  A  KISS. 


In  the  University  of  Upsalo,  in  Sweden,  lived  a 
young  student  —  a  lovely  youth  —  with  a  great 
love  for  studies,  but  without  means  for  pursuing 
them.  He  was  poor,  and  without  connections.  — 
Still,  he  studied,  living  in  great  poverty,  but  keep- 
ing a  cheerful  heart  and  trying  not  to  look  at  the 
future,  which  looked  so  grimly  at  him.  His  good 
humor  and  good  qualities  made  him  beloved  by  his 
young  comrades.  Once  he  was  standing  with  some 
of  them  in  the  great  square  of  Upsalo,  passing  away 
an  hour  of  leisure,  when  the  attention  of  the  young 
man  became  arrested  by  a  very  young  and  elegant 
lady,  who  at  .the  side  of  an  elderly  one,  walked 
slowly  over  the  place.  It  was  the  daughter  of  the 
Governor  of  Upland,  living  in  the  city,  and  the 
lady  with  her  was  the  Governess.  She  was  gene- 
rally known  for  her  goodness  and  gentleness  of 
character,  and  was  looked  upon  with  great  admira- 
tion by  the  students.  As  the  young  men  now 
14  " 


210  WORTH   OF    A   KISS. 

stood  gazing  at  her,  as  she  passed  on  like  a  grace- 
ful vision,  one  of  them  exclaimed  : 

"  Well,  it  would  be  worth  something  to  have  a 
kiss  from  such  a  mouth  !  " 

The  poor  student,  the  hero  of  our  story,  who 
was  looking  intently  on  that  .pure  and  angelic  face, 
exclaimed  as  if  by  inspiration,  "  Well,  I  think  I 
could  have  it." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  his  companions  in  a  chorus, 
are  .you  crazy  ?  Do  you  know  her  ? "  etc. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  answered,  "  but  I  think  she 
would  kiss  me  now,  if  I  asked  her. 

"  What,  in  this  place,  before  all  our  eyes." 

"  In  this  place,  before  your  eyes." 

"Freely?" 

"  Freely." 

"  Well, -if  she  will  give  you  a  kiss  in  that  man- 
ner, I  will  give  you  a  thousand  dollars,"  exclaimed 
one  of  the  party. 

"  And  I !  and  I !  "  cried  three  or  four  others, 
for  it  so  happened  that  several  rich  young  men 
were  in  the  group,  and  bets  ran  high  on  so  improb- 
able an  event;  and  the  challenge  was  made  and 
received  in  less  time  than  we  take  to  relate  it. 

Our  hero  —  (my  authority  tells  not  whether  he 
was  handsome  or  plain.  I  have  my  reasons  for 


WORTH   OF  A   KISS.  211 

believing  that  he  was  rather  plain,  but  singularly 
good  looking  at  the  same  time)  —  our  hero  imme- 
diately walked  off  to  meet  the  young  lady,  and 
said  :  "  (min  froleen)  my  fortune  is  in  your  hand." 
She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment,  but  arrested 
her  steps.  He  proceeded  to  state  his  name  and 
condition,  his  aspiration,  and  related  simply  and 
truly  what  had  just  passed  between  him  and  his 
companions.  The  young  lady  listened  attentively, 
and  when  he  ceased  to  speak,  she  said,  blushing, 
but  with  great  sweetness :  — 

"  If  by  so  little  a  thing  so  much  good  can  be 
effected,  it  would  be  foolish  in  me  to  refuse  your 
request,"  and  she  kissed  the  man,  publicly,  in  the 
open  square. 

Next  day  the  student  was  sent  for  by  the  Gov- 
ernor. He  wanted  to  see  the  man  who  had  dared 
to  ask  a  kiss  of  his  daughter  in  that  way,  and  whom 
she  had  consented  to  kiss,  so.  He  received  him 
with  a  severe  and  scrutinizing  brow,  but  after  an 
hour's  conversation  was  so  pleased  with  him,  that 
he  offered  him  to  dine  at  his  table  during  his  studies 
in  Upsalo. 

Our  young  friend  now  pursued  his  studies  in  a 
manner  which  soon  mado-  him  regarded  as  the  most 
promising  scholar  in  the  University.  Three  years 


212  WORTH    OP   A    KISS. 

were  now  passed  after  the  day  of  the  first  kiss, 
when  the  young  man  was  allowed  to  give  a  second 
one  to  the  daughter  of  the  Governor,  as  to  his  in- 
tended bride. 

He  became,  later,  one  of  the  greatest  scholars 
in  Sweden,  as  much  respected  for  his  learning  as 
for  his  character.  His  works  will  endure  forever 
among  the  works  of  science ;  and  from  this  happy 
union  sprang  a  family  well  known  in  Sweden  at  the 
present  day,  and  whose  wealth  of  fortune  and  high 
position  in  society  are  regarded  as  small  things, 
compared  with  its  wealth  of  goodness  and  love. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  RAIN. 

• 

To  understand  the  philosophy  of  this  beautiful 
and  often  sublime  phenomenon,  so  often  witnessed 
since  the  creation  of  the  world,  and  so  essential  to 
the  very  existence  of  plants  and  animals,  a  few 
facts  derived  from  observation  and  a  long  train  of 
experiments,  must  be  remembered  : 

1.  Were  the  atmosphere  everywhere  at  all  times 
of  a  uniform  temperature,  we  should  never  have 
rain,  or  hail,  or  snow.  The  water  absorbed  by  it 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF   RAIN.  213 

in  evaporation  from  sea  and  earth's  surface,  would 
descend  in  an  imperceptible  vapor,  or  cease  to  be 
absorbed  by  the  air  when  it  was  once  fully  satura- 
ted. 

2.  The  absorbing  power  of  the  atmosphere,  and 
consequently  its  capacity  to  retain  humidity  is  pro- 
portionately greater  in  warm  than  cold  air. 

3.  The  air   near   the   surface  of  the  earth   is 
warmer  than  it  is  in  the  region  of  the  clouds.     The 
higher  we  ascend  from  the  earth  the  colder  do  we 
find  the  atmosphere.     Hence  the  perpetual  snow 
on  very  high  mountains  in  the  hottest  climate. 

Now,  when,  from  continued  evaporation,  the  air 
is  highly  saturated  with  vapor,  though  it  be  invisi- 
ble and  the  sky  cloudless,  if  its  temperature  is  sud- 
denly reduced  by  cold  currents  descending  from 
above,  or  rushing  from  a  higher  to  a  lower  lati- 
tude, or  by  the  motion  of  saturated  air  to  a  cooler 
latitude,  its  capacity  to  retain  moisture  is  diminish- 
ed, clouds  are  formed,  and  the  result  is  rain.  Air 
condenses  as  it  cools,  and  like  a  sponge  filled  with 
water  and  compressed,  pours  out  the  water  which 
its  diminished  capacity  cannot  hold.  How  singular, 
yet  how  simple,  the  philosophy  of  rain  ?  What  but 
Omniscience  could  have  devised  such  an  admirable 
arrangement  for  watering  the  earth  ? 


214     COME  HOME,   MY   STRICKEN   DAUGHTER. 


Come  home,  my  stricken  daughter ! 

A  sire  in  kindness  said  — 
Now  thy  beloved  husband 

Is  numbered  with  the  dead. 

Come  home  —  and  we  will  cheer  thy  heart 

With  fond  affection's  rays ; 
Come,  fill  the  place  that  was  to  thee 

So  dear  in  other  days. 

Here  are  the  scenes  thou  lov'dst  so  well  — 
Here  passed  bright  childhood's  hours, 

The  purling  brook,  the  woody  glen, 
Where  blooms  the  same  sweet  flowers. 

Here  are  the  friends  that  kindly  watched 

Thy  infancy  and  youth : 
Who  sought  to  fill  thy  tender  mind 

With  virtue,  love,  and  truth. 

I  know  thy  heart  will  not  repine, 

Though  earthly  joys  are  fled ; 
And  each  glad  thought  and  hope  of  thine 

\Lies  buried  with  the  dead. 

Then  come,  my  lonely  widowed  on,e  ? 

Thy  father  welcomes  thee : 
And  while  his  heart  with  life  shall  beat, 

His  home  thy  home  shall  be. 

ANNA  A.  ANDERSON. 


MY   PHILOSOPHY.  215 


MY  PHILOSOPHY. 

Kind  words  can  never  die, 

Cherished  and  blest ; 
God  knows  how  deep  they  lie 

Stored  in  the  breast. 
Like  childhood's  simple  rhymes 
Said  o'er  a  thousand  times, 
Aye,  in  all  years  and  climes, 

Distant  and  near, 
Kind  words  can  never  die, 
Saith  my  philsophy ; 
Deep  in  the  soul  they  lie, 

God  knows  how  dear. 

Childhood  can  never  die  — 

Wrecks  of  the  past 
Float  on  the  memory 

E'en  to  the  last. 
Many  a  happy  thing, 
Many  a  daisied  spring, 
Flow,  on  Time's  ceaseless  wing, 

Far,  far  away ; 
Childhood  can  never  die, 
Saith  my  philosophy ; 
Wrecks  of  our  infancy 

Live  on  for  aye. 


216  ABSENCE. 


ABSENCE 

The  hopes  to  which  I  fondest  cling, 
Are  those  which  from  remembrance  spring, 
That  I  once  more  may  see  that  face, 
Where  mem'ry  loves  the  charms  to  trace, 
That  I  adore. 

The  flow'ry  paths  of  life  to  me, 
Are  dull  and  cheerless  without  thee ; 
And  if  I  chance  to  cull  a  flower, 
My  lonely  heart  hath  not  the  power 
To  love  it  long. 

My  happiest  hours  are  spent  alone, 
Since  from  my  bosom  thou  hast  gone  • 
'Tis  then  I  dwell  upon  the  past, 
Which  was  too  heavenly  to  last, 
Too  bright  for  earth. 

The  twilight  hour  is  dear  to  me, 
'Tis  a  sweet  emblem,  love,  of  thee ; 
The  calm  and  quiet  sky  above, 
Then  looks  the  image  of  thy  love, 
That  knew  no  change. 

In  all  things  beautiful  I  see 
Some  sweet  resemblance,  love,  to  thee ; 
The  brilliant  sun  thy  mind  portrays, 
In  shedding  forth  his  cheering  rays, 
To  light  and  guide. 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OP  PUNCTUALITY.    217 

Thou  wert  my  sun  to  guide  by  day, 
Each  step  I  trod  o'er  life's  dark  way, 
How  lonely,  then,  would  be  my  lot, 
If  tliou  by  me  could'st  be  forgot, 
Or  lightly  loved ! 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  PUNCTUALITY. 

"  BEHIND  TIME."  —  A  railroad  train  was  rush- 
ing along  at  almost  lightning  speed.  A  curve  was 
just  ahead,  beyond  which  was  a  station  at  which 
the  cars  usually  passed  each  other.  The  conductor 
was  late,  so  late  that  the  period  during  which  the 
down-train  was  to  wait  had  nearly  elapsed ;  but  he 
hoped  yet  to  pass  the  curve  safely.  Suddenly  a 
locomotive  dashed  into  sight  right  ahead.  In  an 
instant  there  was  a  collision.  A 'shriek,  a  shock, 
and  fifty  souls  were  in  eternity  ;  and  all  because  an 
engineer  had  been  behind  time. 

A  great  battle  was  being  fought.  Column  after 
column  had  been  precipitated  for  eight  mortal  hours 
on  the  enemy  posted  along  the  ridge  of  a  hill.  The 
summer  sun  was  sinking  to  the  West;  reinforce- 
ments for  the  obstinate  defenders  were  already  in 
sight ;  it  was  necessary  to  carry  the  position  with 


218    THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  PUNCTUALITY. 

one  final  charge  or  everything  would  be  lost.  A 
powerful  corps  had  been  summoned  from  across  the 
country,  and  if  it  came  up  in  season  all  yet  would 
be  right.  The  great  conqueror,  confident  in  its 
arrival,  formed  his  reserve  into  an  attacking  column, 
and  led  them  down  the  hill.  The  whole  world 
knows  the  result.  Grouchy  failed  to  appear ;  the 
imperial  guard  was  beaten  back  ;  Waterloo  was 
lost.  Napoleon  died  a  prisoner  at  St.  Helena  be- 
cause one  of  his  marshals  was  behind  time. 

A  leading  firm  in  commercial  circles  had  long 
struggled  against  bankruptcy.  As  it  had  enor- 
mous assets  in  California,  it  expected  remittances 
by  a  certain  day,  and,  if  the  sums  promised  arrived, 
its  credit,  its  honor,  and  its  future  prosperity  would 
be  preserved.  But  week  after  week  elapsed  with- 
out bringing  the  gold.  At  last  came  the  fatal  day 
on  which  the  firm  had  bills  maturing  to  enormous 
amounts.  The  steamer  was  telegraphed  at  day- 
break ;  but  it  was  found  on  inquiry  that  she  brought 
no  funds,  and  the  house  failed.  The  next  arrival 
brought  nearly  half  a  million  to  the  insolvents,  but 
it  was  too  late ;  they  were  ruined,  because  their 
agent,  in  remitting,  had  been  behind  time. 

A  condemned  man  was  being  led  out  for  execu- 
tion. He  had  taken  human  life,  but  under  circum- 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  PUNCTUALITY.    219 

stances  of  the  greatest  provocation,  and  public  sym- 
pathy was  active  in  his  behalf.  Thousands  had 
signed  petitions  for  a  reprieve,  a  favorable  answer 
had  been  expected  the  night  before,  and,  though  it 
had  not  come,  even  the  sheriff  felt  confident  that  it 
would  yet  arrive  in  season.  Thus  the  morning 
passed  without  the  appearance  of  the  messenger. 
The  last  moment  was  up.  —  The  prisoner  took  his 
place  on  the  drop,  the  cap  was  drawn  over  his 
eyes,  the  bolt  was  drawn,  and  a  lifeless  body  swung 
revolving  in  the  wind.  Just  at  that  moment  a 
horseman  came  into  sight,  galloping  down  hill,  hia 
steed  covered  with  foam.  He  carried  a  packet  in 
his  right  hand,  which  he  waved  partially  to  the 
crowd.  He  was  the  express  rider  with  the  re- 
prieve. But  he  had  come  too  late.  A  compara- 
tively innocent  man  had  died  an  ignominious  death 
because  a  watch  had  been  five  minutes  too  slow, 
making  its  bearer  arrive  behind  time. 

It  is  continually  so  in  life.  The  best  laid  plans, 
the  most  important  affairs,  the  fortunes  of  individ- 
uals, the  weal  of  nations,  honor,  happiness,  life  it- 
self are  daily  sacrificed  because  somebody  is  "  be- 
hind time."  There  are  men  who  always  fail  in 
whatever  they  undertake  simply  because  they  are 
"  behind  time."  There  are  others  who  put  off  re- 


220    THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  PUNCTUALITY. 

formation  year  by  year  till  death  seizes  them,  and 
they  perish  unrepentant,  because  forever  "  behind 
time."  The  allies  have  lost  nearly  a  year  at  Se- 
bastopol  because  they  delayed  a  superfluous  day 
after  the  battle  of  Alma,  and  came  up  too  late  for 
a  coup  de  main  just  twenty-four  hours  "  behind 
time."  Five  minutes  in  a  crisis  is  worth  years. 
It  is  but  a  little  period,  yet  it  has  often  saved  a 
fortune  or  redeemed  a  people.  If  there  is  one 
virtue  that  should  be  cultivated  more  than  another 
by  him  who  would  succeed  in  life  it  is  punctuality ; 
if  there  is  one  error  that  should  be  avoided  it  is 
being  behind  time. 


ANGEL   HOME. 


ANGEL  HOME. 

Last  night,  mamma,  I  had  a  dream, 

So  happy  while  I  slept, 
That  when  at  early  morn  I  woke 

And  found  it  false,  I  wept. 

Methought  my  sister  played  with  me 

Beside  a  fountain  clear, 
Where  birds  were  singing  in  the  trees, 

And  flowers  were  blooming  near. 

A  robe  of  shining  white  she  wore, 

And  in  her  eye  a  smile, 
As  pure  and  sweet  as  angels  wear, 

Was  beaming  all  the  while. 

We  wove  of  fragrant  jasmine  buds, 

A  garland  for  her  hair, 
And  gazing  in  the  fount  she  smiled, 

To  see  herself  so  fair. 

When  down  her  cheeks  bright  tear-drops  fell, 

Like  dew  on  lilies  white, 
Alas ! "  she  sighed,  "  how  soon  the  flowers 

Must  wither  in  our  sight. 

But,  brother  dear,  I  know  a  land, 

It  is  my  angel  home, 
Where  beauty  never  fades  away ; 

My  brother,  will  you  come  ?" 


222  ANGEL  HOME. 

She  twined  her  soft  arms  round  my  neck, 

And  whispered,  sweet  and  low, 
"  Come,  brother,  where  the  angels  sing ; 
Say,  Eddie,  will  you  go  ?  " 

u  O  sister,  let  me  first  go  home, 

And  kiss  our  mother  dear, 

And  tell  her  not  to  weep  for  me, 

She'll  be  so  lonely  here ! " 

I  hastened  home  to  say  good  bye,  — 

And  you  awoke  me  then  ! 
Say,  mother,  will  the  night  come  soon, 

That  I  may  dream  again  ? 

,  Night  came  again,  and  Eddie  slept, 

But  ere  the  morning's  beam 
He  culled  the  deathless  flowers  that  bloom 
Beside  the  living  stream. 


MY  OWN  HEART'S  HOME. 

My  own  heart's  home ! 
Like  a  wearied  dove  I  come  to  thee, 
When  the  wild  waste  had  no  home  for  me,  — 
When  the  winds  were  fierce,  and  with  tearful  e 
I  could  but  look  upward  and  ask  to  die, 

Yearn  wildly  to  die ! 


MY  OWN  HEART'S  HOME.  223 

My  own  heart's  home  ! 
I  rest  in  the  calm  of  thy  holy  shade, 
Hearing  the  world-strife,  but  am  not  afraid  ; 
I  smile  when  the  turmoil  grows  hottest  with  strife, 
For  thou  art  my  shelter,  —  what  fear  I  in  life  ? 

In  the  turmoil  of  life  ? 

My  own  heart's  home ! 
Where  the  purest  of  angels  are  ever  near, 
Where  eden-like  music  is  mine  to  hear. 
For  Hope,  Faith  and  love  twine  their  arms  about  me, 
And  bathe  my  glad  spirit  in  whispers  of  thee, 

Sweet  whispers  of  thee ! 

My  own  heart's  home ! 

That  casteth  a  shelter  so  strong  'round  the  weak, 
How  vain  are  the  praises  my  soul-love  would  speak, 
How  faint  are  the  whispers  that  answer  to  thine, 
How  cold  is  their  meaning  when  told  in  my  rhyme, 

For  thee  in  my  rhyme  ! 

Still  fold  me  in  love 

Close  to  thy  heart,  for  my  own  would  break, 
And  never  again  to  gladness  awake, 
Should  the  home  of  my  heart  turn  cold  with  scorn, 
And  I  wander  forth  to  battle  the  storm, 

The  world's  tempest  storm. 

My  own  heart's  home ! 
,Angels  around  it  and  faith  within, 
It  seemeth  too  good  for  me  to  rest  in ; 
Yet  since  thou  hast  called  me  its  rest  to  share, 
O  !  let  me  forever,  forever  be  there, 

Forever  be  there '  JENNY  MARSH, 


224  THE   FIRST   LIB. 

THE  FIRST  LIE. 

I  remember  it  as  yesterday.  The  roses  flush 
by  my  side  as  if  newly  opened  ;  they  hang  from 
rude  trellises  trained  over  the  low  kitchen.  How 
delicious  the  woodbine  smells !  I  scent  it  through 
the  open  gates  of  my  childhood's  memory.  And 
that  dear  wee  garden  that  my  mother  loved  and 
tended ;  and  the  old,  wooden  pump,  with  its  neck- 
laces of  green  moss!  A  little  winding  path  led 
to  that  pump,  and  by  it,  out  into  the  orchard.  I 
think  that  when  a  little  girl  my  mind  must  have 
been  poetically  inclined,  for  I  have  stood  many  a 
time  with  swelling  heart  and  clasped  hands,  gazing 
at  the  trees  all  a-blossom  —  and  likening  them  to 
so  many  things ;  to  drops  of  snow,  to  bits  of  fleecy 
clouds,  to  lambswool,  white  and  soft  —  to  every- 
thing tender,  pure  and  beautiful. 

One  day  in  early  spring,  my  father  brought  home 
some  choice  young  fruit  trees,  and  the  hands  set 
them  in  a  rich  black  earth,  so  straight  and  so  neat- 
ly, that  they  were  a  pleasure  to  gaze  at.  I  was 
then  a  little  thing,  not  yet  four  years  old,  and  I 
remember  his  replying  to  all  questions  with  that 
straightforward  simplicity  that  he  always  used  to 
wards  children,  and  indeed  towards  everybody. 


TilE   FIRST    LIE.  225 

He  told  me  that  in  a  year  or  two,  there  might 
be  some  beautiful  red  apples  on  those  pretty  trees, 
and  asked  me  if  I  could  wait  with  patience  till 
then  —  and  if  I  had  faith  to  believe  that  of  which 
there  was  no  sign.  I  had  a  vague  idea  then  that 
the  apples  lay  hidden  in  the  trunk  somewhere,  and 
somebody  had  once  told  me  that  angels  came  down 
and  put  the  fruit  on,  after  the  blossoms  had  gone 
—  but  it  was  not  hard  to  believe  my  father,  for  he 
always  told  the  truth.  Two  springs  passed,  and  at 
last  there  came  a  few  blossoms  on  the  little  trees ; 
beauties  they  were,  tinged  with  little  pink  edges, 
streaked  Avith  faint  veins  ;  and  some  of  them  I  could 
see  plainly  by  standing  on  tiptoe,  for  the  trees  were 
very  short. 

That  year  my  Aunt  Mary  died,  and  I  was  sent 
for,  to  pass  a  few  months  with  her  lonely  little  girl. 

It  made  me  sad  to  see  her  looking  so  sorrowful, 
and  dressed  in  that  sombre  black ;  but  she  was  not 
very  sorrowful  more  than  a  week  or  two,  and  by 
degrees  we  came  to  have  fine  romps  ;  and  after  the 
fun  was  exhausted,  we  sat  in  the  housekeeper's 
room  and  listened  to  her  garrulous  tongue,  as  it 
ratiled  off  pleasant  stories  and  mirth-provoking 
anecdotes. 

At  last  the  fall  months  came,  and  in  October  I 
15 


226  THE   FIRST   LIE. 

was  to  return.  Pleasant  as  my  stay  had  been,  I 
was  wild  with  delight  at  the  thought  that  I  should 
soon  meet  my  gentle  mother,  and  my  dear,  dear 
father  How  I  flew  through  the  old  house,  after  I 
had  kissed  everybody,  and  almost  every  thing  — 
even  to  the  sober  old  cat,  who  gave  an  ungracious 
protest,  and  jumped  angrily  over  my  head !  The 
flowers  had  faded,  but  the  autumn  glories  were  in 
all  their  vivid  coloring  and  beauty  of  apparel.  The 
pump  still  bore  its  wreaths  of  moss,  and  its  iron 
handle,  standing  almost  upright,  received  a  hearty 
shake  at  my  hands.  I  passed  into  the  old  orchard. 
It  was  filled  with  fruit,  and  on  one  of  the  trans- 
planted trees  hung  one  —  only  one  great  rosy  ap- 
ple, so  tempting !  so  luscious-looking,  that  from  the 
first  I  felt  a  desire  to  possess  it,  and  before  I  had 
given  myself  time  to  resist  the  evil,  the  apple  was 
in  my  hand.  0 !  how  strangely  I  felt  for  a  mo- 
ment !  I  turned  to  go  into  the  house  and  give  it  to 
my  father,  trusting  that  he  would  ask  no  ques- 
tions ;  or  if  he  did,  my  frankness  might  be  my  me- 
diator ;  but  the  melting  lusciousnexfi  that  seemed  to 
permeate  even  the  glossy  rind,  mcHed  my  resolu- 
tion, and  I  hurried  breathlessly  to  a  large  tree  at 
the  end  of  the  orchard,  and,  as  guilt  always  strives 
to  do,  hid  myself.  Not  a  mouthful  lid  I  enjoy ;  it 


THE   FIRST   LIE.  227 

was  sweet,  delicious,  but  in  my  wicked  haste  I 
choked  it  down,  and  had  eaten  to  the  core,  when  I 
heard  my  father's  voice.  A  clap  of  thunder  had 
not  sounded  more  terrible  than  those  mild  tones, 
just  then :  I  threw  down  the  remnant  of  the  apple, 
wiped  my  hands,  and  with  cheeks  that  seemed 
bursting,  went  forward  to  my  father.  He  looked 
at  me  keenly,  and  we  passed  into  the  house  to 
meet  a  little  friend  who  had  called  to  see  me  after 
my  long  absence. 

I  was  so  filled  with  the  great  misery  of  my  sin, 
that  I  could  hardly  force  myself  to  seem  pleased 
•with  the  visit ;  and  all  that  long  afternoon  my  heart 
ached. 

"  I  am  sorry,  mother,"  said  my  father,  "  but 
the  apple  you  wanted  so  much  is  gone." 

I  cowered  as  I  stood  watching  my  mother  pre- 
paring sweetmeats  for  my  little  friend  and  myself. 
My  mother  paused  with  a  look  of  anxiety,  as  she 
said,  "  Who  do  you  suppose  has  taken  it  ?  It  was 
there  this  morning." 

"  I  am  afraid  some  of  the  children." 

"  I  didn't  touch  it,"  cried  I,  before  he  had 
finished. 

"  No  one  has  accused  you,  Marcia,"  said  my 
father,  after  interchanging  glances  with  my  mother 


228  THE   FIRST   LIE. 

—  "  why  are  you  ready  to  deny  before  the  que&- 
tion  is  asked  ?  " 

I  said  nothing.  In  a  little  while  my  father  took 
me  into  his  work-room,  to  show  me  a  little  toy  he 
had  been  making  for  me.  My  cheek  still  burned, 
and  I  kept  choking  back  the  tears ;  I  was  suffering 
the  first  agony  of  a  lie  unconfessed. 

Suddenly  my  father  took  my  hand,  and  drawing 
me  towards  him,  held  up  the  very  apple-core  I  had 
thrown  away. 

"  I  never  touched  it ;  I  never  saw  it ;  I  didn't 
throw  it  there  !  "  I  cried  in  incoherent  sentences ; 
then  shrieking  in  my  agony,  I  began  to  sob  and 
cry  piteously. 

"My  daughter,  —  you  took  the  apple,"  said 
my  father,  in  his  calm,  sweet  voice  —  and  oh  !  as 
I  looked  at  him  I  saw  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  hia 
lips,  those  mild  lips,  trembled.  That  was  terrible ! 
I  could  have  borne  his  anger  —  I  longed  for  him 
to  scold  me,  and  call  me  a  wicked,  lying  girl  — 
anything  but  that  look  —  that  look  that  pitied  me 
so.  I  stopped  crying,  but  I  thought  in  the  silence 
that  followed,  my  heart  would  burst ;  my  eyes  were 
bent  to  the  floor,  and  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  scarce- 
ly breathe.  I  felt  his  fingers  under  my  chin,  press- 
ing it  to  make  me  look  up.  I  heard  his  voice, 


THE    FIRST   LIE.  229 

now  a  little  stonier,  saying,  "  Lift  your  eyes  up, 
my  child  "  —  and  I  did  lift  them,  heavily,  to  his 
sorrowful  face.  Then  he  talked  with  me  about  my 
dreadful  sin  till  my. very  soul  was  melted  within 
me;  till  at  last  I  cried  out  — "  Oh!  forgive  me, 
forgive  me  —  I  took  the  apple  ;  I  told  a  lie  —  I 
am  very  wicked  —  I  shall  never  dare  to  pray 
again !  " 

"  I  am  old  now,"  said  the  sweet-faced  lady  who 
told  this  story,  —  "  I  am  old  now,  but  the  prayer 
that  my  father  offered  to  heaven,  that  agonizing 
petition,  mingled  with  the  sobs  of  strong  feeling,  I 
seem  to  hear  it  as  if  it  were  a  thing  of  yesterday. 
Days,  weeks  passed  before  I  felt  innocent  again. 
Alas  !  I  have  always,  and  shall  carry  to  the  judg- 
ment with  me,  the  memory  of  that  first  lie.  For 
months  my  cheeks  tinged  at  my  father's  glance, 
and  my  heart  felt  faint  when  I  thought  of  my  sin. 
But  never  since  then  —  never  once  have  I  been 
tempted  to  falsehood. "  The  sting  of  remorse  left  a 
wound,  thank  God,  that  bleeds  afresh  at  the  thought 
of  wrong.  Oh !  I  often  think,  if  children  who  are 
thoughtlessly  left  to  work  out  their  own  life-prob 
lems  could  have  the  benefit  of  a  supervision  like 
that  of  my  gentle,  praying  father's  to  watch  for 
evil,  and  apply  the  remedy,  what  a  world  full  of 


230  A   GENTLE  MAN. 

angels  this  would  be  !  Oh!  parents — what  solemn, 
awful  responsibilities  fall  to  your  lot,  only  eternity 
will  reveal.  Watch  for  the  first  sin  —  and  espe- 
cially let  your  tears,  your  prayers,  bear  witness  to 
your  horrors  of  that  awful  sin,  when  your  resolute 
but  erring  boy  —  your  blue-eyed  girl,  stand  weep- 
ing before  you,  burdened  with  the  guilt  of  their 
"first  lie."  —  M.  J. 


A  GENTLE  MAN. 

A  man  need  not  be  a  tyrant  to  show  himself 
strong ;  and  yet  such  strange  vagaries  do  some 
men  possess  that  they  fight  down  the  tenderness 
that  is  inherent  in  their  natures  for  fear  they  may 
be  called  weak.  "  Tied  to  mother's  apron-string  " 
is  the  first  laughing  sneer  of  the  school-boy  if  he 
finds  in  his  playmate  a  disposition  to  love  his  home. 
"  Before  I'd  be  governed  by  a  girl ; "  is  the  next 
taunting  fling,  as  the  headstrong  child  is  curbed 
by  an  elder  sister ;  and  if  there  are  not  the  firmest 
hands  and  the  holiest  hearts,  and  the  finest  judg- 
ments around  that  child's  hearthstone,  he  will  grow 
up  with  a  contempt  for  every  feminine  trait,  and 


A    GENTLE    MAN.  231 

in  proving  himself  a  man  will  display  only  brute 
strength,  and  stoical  insensibility.  Many  such  have 
married ;  how  they  won  their  wives  it  is  impossible 
to  imagine  ;  how  they  could  smile,  or  show  any 
little  attention  that  required  delicate  management 
we  cannot  even  dream  ;  but  they  do  sometimes, 
nay,  often,  find  hearts  to  break,  and  ruthlessly  they 
break  them. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  fuss  over  woman,"  said  one  of 
these  bears,  when  he  was  queried  why  in  some 
trifling  thing  he  did  not  assist  his  wife.  Did  ho 
think  it  manly,  refined,  brave,  thus  to  deport  him- 
self towards  one  who  had  thrown  her  life,  her  hap- 
piness, her  all  into  his  keeping  ?  0  !  if  he  knew 
with  what  disgust  all  true  men  and  women  would 
henceforth  look  upon  him,  could  his  speech  be 
branded  upon  his  forehead,  he  would  have  shrunk 
in  the  shadow  of  his  own  baseness,  nor  ever  opened 
his  lips  again. 

It  is  compatible  to  join  with  the  nobility  of  man- 
hood the  quiet  grace,  the  gentle,  low  voice,  and 
the  winning  tenderness  of  woman.  Thrice  beauti- 
ful is  it  to  see  the  man  step  down  from  the  pedes- 
tal whereon  he  has  spoken  "  words  that  burn  "  — 
where  his  thoughts  have  been  clothed  in  the  daz- 
zling garments  of  heaven-born  genius — where  mul- 


232  A   GENTLE   MAN. 

titudes  have  sat,  delighted  worshippers,  thrice  beau- 
tiful it  is  to  see  him  change  the  lofty  gesture,  the 
oratorical  manner,  to  the  quiet,  soft  accents  of  ten- 
derness as  he  speaks  to  his  wife,  to  his  little  child. 
Thrice  beautiful  to  see  him  careful  of  their  health, 
their  interest,  their  comfort.  Aye,  if  man  would 
be  truly,  devotedly  loved,  and  all  but  worshipped 
by  woman,  let  him  be  womanly.  It  would  detract 
nothing  from  his  mental  stature  ;  it  would  exalt  him 
among  the  heroes  of  earth ;  it  would  kindle  for  him 
an  undying  interest  in  the  heart  to  which  he  has 
given  life.  And  if  he  should  die,  his  tomb  would 
be  a  Mecca.  Beautiful  flowers  would  bloom  there 
but  not  as  fresh,  as  undying,  as  radiant  in  color- 
ing, as  sweet  in  fragrance  as  those  that  would  blos- 
som continually  in  the  memory  of  the  living  tem- 
ples in  which  his  unfading  image  shall  never  know 
decay. 

How  many  various  ideas  we  have  of  a  gentle- 
man !  Every  person  aims  to  become  a  gentleman, 
and  there  is  no  one  but  would  regard  it  as  an  in- 
sult to  be  told  he  was  not.  Every  one,  therefore, 
is  a  gentleman  in  his  own  way.  Some  think  dress 
is  the  only  requisite ;  some  wealth,  regardless  of 
dress,  mind  or  manners.  Wealth  is  doubtless  the 
great  sine  qua  non  of  gentility  in  our  day.  A 


A    GENTLE    MAN.  233 

perfect  boor  is  transformed  into  a  gentleman  by  its 
magic  power ;  his  power  admits  him  at  once  into 
the  most  refined  (?)  circles,  and  amongst  the  high- 
est classes.  He  appears  with  bold  assurance  where 
genius  and  true  merit  dare  not  come.  But  after 
all,  is  he  the  real  gentleman  ? 

The  poor  scholar  who  racks  his  brain  to  earn  his 
bread  —  the  artist,  whose  struggling  genius  earns 
him  a  bare  subsistence  —  the  teacher,  whose  miser- 
able pittance  but  just  buys  bread  enough  to  satiate 
the  clamorous  appetites  of  half  a  dozen  children, 
cannot,  of  course,  be  gentlemen  !  They  are  the 
servants  of  the  wealthy,  and  an  insurmountable 
barrier  keeps  them  away  from  the  real  gentlemen, 
and  walls  them  up  in  their  own  little  circle,  their 
proper  sphere  ! 

We  don't  all  think  so,  however  —  thanks  to 
American  common  sense  !  There  are  some  gentle- 
men in  the  world  that  money  never  made,  and  a 
few  that  wealth  never  exalted  to  such  a  dizzy  height 
as  to  render  them  completely  oblivious  of  the  fact 
that  they  were  yet  frail  human  creatures,  and  lived 
in  common  brotherhood  with  the  rest  of  mankind. 

Gentility  is  not  in  wealth ;  it  is  not  in  dress,  nor 
genius,  nor  any  other  attribute  of  man,  unless  it  go 
hand  in  hand  with  a  cheerful  disposition,  an  ami- 


234  A   GENTLE   MAN. 

able  temper  and  a  philanthropic  will.  There  are 
real  bona  fide  gentlemen  in  all  classes  of  society, 
and  he  is  the  greatest  gentleman  who  mingles  with 
all,  and  remains  untarnished.  Real  gentility  is 
moral  freedom;  it  respects  no  particular  persons, 
as  a  class  beyond  their  merits  ;  it  does  not  exclude 
one  man  because  he  is  poor ;  but  embracing  all  who 
ire  worthy,  it  regards  tfrem  as  kindred  souls  who 
should  ever  dwell  harmoniously  together.  This 
constitutes  a  gentleman. 


WISER    THAN    THE    EMPEROR.  235 


WISER  THAN  THE  EMPEROR. 

There  was  once  a  poor  man,  who  dwelt  in  a  hut, 
and  gained  his  livelihood  by  begging  alms.  He 
had  an  only  daughter,  whom  heaven  had  gifted 
with  extraordinary  wisdom,  and  who,  little  by  little, 
taught  her  father  to  speak  so  wisely,  that  one  day, 
when  he  had  gone  to  ask  alms  of  the  Emperor,  the 
latter  was  astonished  at  the  wisdom  with  which  he 
spoke,  and  demanded  from  whom  he  had  acquired 
it.  "  From  my  daughter,  0  noble  Emperor !  "  an- 
swered the  poor  man  ;  and  the  Emperor  being  very 
wise  himself,  and  proud  of  his  wisdom,  resolved  to 
put  that  of  the  poor  man's  daughter  to  trial ;  so  he 
gave  the  poor  man  thirty  eggs,  and  said  : 

"  Take  these  to  thy  daughter,  and  bid  her  get 
them  hatched  into  thirty  pullets.  If  she  refuses  to 
obey,  evil  will  befall  her." 

The  poor  man  burst  into  tears,  for  he  saw  that 
the  eggs  had  all  been  boiled.  But  when  he  had 
reached  home,  and  had  told  his  daughter  all  that 
had  passed,  she  bade  him  be  cheerful  and  retire  to 
rest,  telling  him  that  ho  need  fear  no  danger.  She 
then  took  a  pot  of  water,  put  a  handful  of  beans 


236  WISER  THAN   THE   EMPEROR. 

into  it,  and  placed  it  over  the  fire ;  and  on  the 
morrow,  when  her  father  had  risen,  she  gave  him 
the  boiled  beans,  and  told  him  to  take  his  spade 
and  dig  a  trench  in  a  certain  field,  by  which  the 
Emperor  would  pass  as  he  went  out  hunting,  ad- 
ding, u  And  as  the  Emperor  passes  by,  take  the 
beans  and  sow  them  in  the  trench,  and  cry  aloud 
— '  God  be  gracious,  and  grant  that  my  boiled 
beans  may  spring  up  quickly  ! '  and  if  the  Emperor 
asks  how  it  is  possible  for  boiled  beans  to  grow,  re- 
ply that  it  is  as  easy  as  it  is  for  a  pullet  to  be  hatch- 
ed from  a  boiled  egg." 

"  The  poor  man  did  as  his  daughter  had  in- 
structed him.  He  took  his  spade  and  dug  a  trench 
in  a  field  by  the  side  of  the  highway,  and  when  he 
saw  the  Emperor  coming,  he  began  to  sow  his 
beans  in  the  trench,  and  cry  aloud : 

"  God  be  gracious  and  grant  that  my  boiled 
beans  may  spring  up  quickly !  " 

When  the  Emperor  heard  these  words,  he  stop- 
ped, and  asked  how  it  was  possible  for  boiled  beans 
to  grow.  Whereupon  the  poor  man  answered  : 

"  Gracious  Emperor,  it  is  as  easy  as  for  a  pullet 
to  be  hatched  from  a  boiled  egg." 

The  Emperor  divined  whom  it  was  that  had  ar- 
ranged this  stratagem ;  and  in  order  still  more  to 


— I 

WISER   THAN   THE    EMPEROR.  237 

try  the  maiden's  wisdom,  he  gave  the  poor  man  a 
small  pack  of  hemp,  and  said  :  — 

"  Take  this  to  thy  daughter,  and  bid  .her  make 
me  from  it  as  many  sails  and  ropes  as  are  neces- 
sary for  a  ship.  If  she  refuses  to  obey,  her  head 
shall  pay  the  forfeit." 

The  poor  man  was  sorely  troubled  at  these  words  ; 
and,  having  received  the  pack  of  hemp,  returned 
to  his  daughter,  weeping  all  the  way.  But  when 
he  had  told  her  all  that  had  passed,  she  again 
comforted  him,  and  bade  him  be  cheerful,  and  re- 
tire to  rest,  and  fear  no  danger ;  and,  on  the  mor- 
row, when  he  had  risen,  she  gave  him  a  little  piece 
of  wood,  and  said  :  — 

"  Take  this  to  the  Emperor ;  and  say  that  if  he 
will  cut  me  out  of  it  a  spinning-wheel,  a  loom,  and 
a  shuttle,  then  will  I  do  that  which  he  has  com- 
manded." 

The  poor  man  did  the  second  time  as  his  daugh- 
ter had  instructed  him  ;  and  when  he  had  deliver- 
ed her  message,  the  Emperor  was  more  than  ever 
astonished  at  her  wisdom.  To  put  it  to  a  new 
trial,  he  took  a  drinking  glass,  and  said  to  the  poor 
man  : 

"  Take  this  to  thy  daughter,  and  bid  her  empty 
the  sea  with  it,  and  make  its  bed  dry  enough  to 


238  WISER   THAN  THE   EMPEROR. 

grow  corn.  If  she  refuse  to  obey,  both  her  head 
and  thine  own  shall  pay  the  forfeit." 

At  this  the  poor  man  was  more  terrified  than 
ever.  But  when  he  had  returned  home,  and  told 
his  daughter  what  the  Emperor  had  commanded, 
the  maiden  comforted  him  the  third  time  and  bade 
him  be  cheerful,  and  retire  to  rest  and  fear  no 
danger.  And  on  the  morrow  when  he  had  arisen, 
she  gave  him  a  pound  of  tow,  and  said  to  him : 

"  Take  this  to  the  Emperor,  and  say  that  if  he 
will  stop  with  it  the  mouths  and  the  springs  of  all 
the  rivers  in  the  world,  then  will  I  do  that  which 
he  has  commanded." 

Again  the  poor  man  did  according  to  his  daugh- 
ter's counsel ;  and  when  he  had  delivered  her  mes- 
sage, the  Emperor  acknowledged  that  she  was  wiser 
than  he  was  himself,  and  commanded  that  she  should 
at  once  be  brought  before  him.  When  she  had 
<;ome  into  his  presence  and  had  saluted  him,  he 
said  to  her : 

"  My  daughter,  tell  me  what  can  be  heard  the 
farthest  ?  "  and  she  answered,  "  Gracious  Emperor, 
thunder  and  a  lie." 

The  Emperor  then  took  his  beard  into  his  hand 
and  demanded  of  his  counsellors  how  much  it  was 
worth.  When  they  had  placed  upon  it  a  value, 


WISER    THAN    THE    EMPEROR.  239 

some  a  greater  and  some  a  less,  the  maiden  said : 
"  Most  Gracious  Emperor,  none  of  thy  counsellors 
have  answered  well.  The  beard  of  the  Emperor  is 
worth  three  showers  of  rain  in  a  dry  summer." 

These  words  delighted  the  Emperor,  who  de- 
clared that  the  maiden  had  answered  better  than 
all  his  counsellors.  He  then  asked  her  if  she  wquld 
become  his  wife,  saying  that  he  would  receive  only 
one  answer.  The  maiden  prostrated  herself  before 
him,  and  replied  : 

"  Gracious  Emperor,  it  is  thine  to  command,  and 
mine  to  obey  what  thou  commandest.  Let  me  ask 
of  thee  but  one  thing,  namely,  that  thou  shalt  give 
me  a  writing,  written  with  thine  own  hand,  that 
if  ever  it  should  be  thy  pleasure  to  send  me  away, 
I  may  carry  from  thy  castle  whatever  single  thing 
I  may  love  best." 

The  Emperor  gave  her  the  writing  that  she  asked, 
and  then  had  her  placed  upon  the  throne  beside 
him. 

For  many  summers  the  Empress  was  beloved  of 
her  husband ;  but  it  came  to  pass  in  time  that  he 
ceased  to  cherish  her.  He  then  said  to  her  one 
day :  "  I  do  not  wish  thee  any  longer  to  be  my 
wife.  Leave  my  castle  and  go  wherever  thou  wilt." 

She  answered,  "  Illustrious  Emperor,  I  will  obey 


240  WISER   THAN   THE    EMPEROR. 

thee.  Grant  me  only  that  I  may  stay  until  to-mor- 
row." The  Emperor  granted  what  she  asked,  and 
in  the  evening  she  poured  some  of  the  juice  of  a 
certain  herb  into  a  cup  of  wine,  and  presented  it 
to  him,  and  said  :  "  Drink,  illustrious  Emperor, 
and  be  happy!  To-morrow  I  go  away,  and  to- 
morrow I  shall  be  more  joyful  than  I  was  even  on 
my  marriage  morn.*' 

The  Emperor  drank,  and  soon  his  eyelids  be- 
came heavy,  and  he  fell  asleep ;  and  while  he  slept, 
the  Empress  had  him  lifted  into  a  carriage  which 
was  in  readiness,  and  therein  conveyed  to  a  distant 
grotto,  which  she  long  before  had  prepared  in  anti- 
cipation of  such  an  emergency.  When  the  Em- 
peror awoke,  and  found  himself  in  the  grotto,  he 
angrily  demanded  how  he  had  come  thither.  "  I 
have  had  you  brought  here,"  replied  the  Empress. 
And  he  then  asked  very  angrily,  wherefore  she 
had  done  this,  adding  :  "  Did  I  not  say  that  thou 
shouldst  no  longer  be  my  wife  ?  "  The  Empress 
took  out  of  her  bosom  the  writing  which  the  Em- 
peror had  given  her  before  her  marriage,  and  an- 
swered : 

"  It  is  true,  illustrious  Emperor ;  but  this  writing 
which  was  given  with  thine  own  hand  accorded  me 
the  right  to  bring  away  with  me,  when  I  quitted 


WISER   THAN    THE    EMPEKOK.  241 

the  castle,  whatsoever  I  might  love  the  best ;  I  ex- 
ercised my  right,  and  brought  thee,  most  gracious 
Emperor." 

When  the  Emperor  heard  these  words,  he  vowed 
never  to  part  from  so  faithful  and  wise  a  wife.  So 
he  embraced  her,  and  returned  with  her  to  the 
castle  ;  and  they  two  sat  thereafter  side  by  side 
upon  the  throne  for  many  summers  ;  and  when  the 
last  summer  was  past,  Death  reaped  them  both  to- 
gether like  a  double  ear  of  corn. 

There  are  two  hearts  whose  movements  thrill 

In  unison  so  closely  sweet, 
That,  pulse  to  pulse,  responsive  still 

They  both  must  heave  —  or  cease  to  beat. 

There  are  two  souls  whose  equal  flow 

In  gentle  streams  so  calmly  run, 
That  when  they  part  —  they  part !  ah,  no ! 

They  cannot  part  —  their  souls  are  one ! 

BARTOW 

16 


242  THE  TEST   OF   FRIENDSHIP. 


THE  TEST  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

Brightest  shine  the  stars  above 

When  the  night  is  darkest  round  us ; 

Those  the  friends  we  dearest  love 
Who  were  near  when  sorrow  bound  us. 

When  no  clouds  o'ercast  our  sky, 

When  no  evil  doth  attend  us, 
Then  will  many  gather  nigh, 

Ever  ready  to  befriend  us. 

But  when  darkness  shades  our  path, 
When  misfortune  hath  its  hour, 

When  we  lie  beneath  its  wrath, 
Some  will  leave  us  to  its  power. 

Often  have  we  seen  at  night, 

When  the  clouds  have  gathered  o'er  tu, 
One  lone  star  send  forth  its  light, 

Marking  out  the  path  before  us. 

Like  that  star,  some  friendly  eye 
Will  beam  on  us  in  our  sorrow ; 

And,  though  clouded  be  our  sky, 

We  know  there'll  be  a  better  morrow. 

We  know  that  all  will  not  depart, 

That  some  will  gather  round  to  cheer  us; 

Know  we,  in  our  inmost  heart, 

Tried  and  faithful  friends  are  near  us. 

i 


LITTLE   THINGS.  243 

Brother,  those  who  do  not  go, 

May  he  deemed  friends  forever; 
Love  them,  trust  them,  let  them  know 

Nothing  can  our  friendship  sever. 


LITTLE  THINGS. 

Little  drops  of  water, 
Little  grains  of  sand, 

Make  the  mighty  ocean 
And  the  beauteous  land. 

And  the  little  moments, 
Humble  though  they  be, 

Make  the  mighty  ages 
Of  eternity. 

So  our  little  errors 
Lead  the  soul  away 

From  the  paths  of  virtue, 
Oft  in  sin  to  stray. 

Little  deeds  of  kindness, 
Little  words  of  love, 

Make  our  earth  an  Eden, 
Like  the  heaven  above. 

Little  seeds  of  mercy, 
Sown  by  youthful  hand% 

Grow  to  bless  the  nations 
Far  in  heathen  lands. 


244  TO    THE    BIRDS    OP    SPRING. 


TO  THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING. 

Spring  has  come,  — 

We'll  welcome  home 
The  birds  among  the  flowers ; 

Here  to-day, 

Till  forced  away, 
By  winter's  chilling  bowers 

Teach  your  young 

The  warbling  song, 
Among  the  vales  and  mountains ; 

With  delight, 

Live  day  and  night, 
As  rolls  the  murmuring  fountains. 

Pass  your  time, 

From  clime  to  clime, 
Till  life's  weary  journey  is  o'er ; 

When  I'm  gone 

Whence  none  return, 
Then  o'er  my  grave  gently  soar. 

Tributes  fairy, 

And  gently  sing, 
When  the  morning  sun  is  shining; 

Remember  well 

Thy  notes  do  swell 
Where  beauty  is  reclining. 


HAPPY   NEW   YEAR.  245 


HAPPY  NEW  YEAR. 

The  old  year  has  passed  away.  The  record  of 
its  acts  and  events  has  been  closed  and  sealed,  and 
a  new  volume  of  the  great  book  of  life  has  been 
opened.  Its  fair  white  pages  are  now  awaiting  the 
record  of  another  year.  It  is  a  time  for  reflection 
— for  repentance,  even,  and  for  new  resolutions. 
There  are  few,  we  presume,  except  those  who  are 
giddily  and  thoughtlessly  hurrying  down  the  stream 
of  life,  who  do  not  commence  the  new  year  with 
a  fixed  determination  to  perform  some  new  or  neg- 
lected duty  —  to  reform  some  bad  habit  —  to  em- 
brace more  faithfully  the  opportunities  everywhere 
afforded  for  self-improvement,  and  to  strive  to  be 
wiser  and  better  than  during  the  past  year.  There 
is  a  certain  thoughtful  solemnity  about  New  Year's 
Day  which  is  incident  to  no  other  day  of  the  year. 
It  has  been  commemorated  as  well  in  heathen  as  in 
Christian  countries,  almost  from  time  immemorial, 
as  a  day  of  retrospection  and  good  resolutions  —  as 
a  day  for  putting  off  the  old  man  and  putting  on 
the  new.  On  this  day  the  Romans  laid  aside  all 
old  grudges  and  ill-humor,  and  took  care  not  to 
speak  one  ominous  or  untoward  word.  The  me- 


246  HAPPY   NEW   YEAR. 

chanics  began  some  work  of  their  trade ;  the  men 
of  letters  did  the  same  as  to  books,  poems,  etc. ; 
and  the  consuls,  though  chosen  before,  took  the 
chair  and  entered  upon  their  office  on  New  Year's 
day.  The  Jews  considered  this  day  as  the  day  on 
which  God  holds  judgment,  and  also  as  the  anni- 
versary of  the  day  on  which  Adam  was  created. 

Looking  back  from  this  standpoint  of  time  upon 
the  year  which  has  just  closed,  we  cannot  but  rec- 
ognize the  fact  that  it  has  Hbeen  to  us  as  a  nation, 
one  of  great  prosperity.  While  other  nations  have 
been  involved  in  wars,  or  suffered  from  short  crops 
and  commercial  revulsions,  we  have  been  at  peace 
with  all  the  world.  The  labors  of  the  husbandman 
have  prospered  —  commerce  and  the  arts  have  flour- 
ished —  and  even  the  gloomy  clouds  which  at  the 
commencement  oi  the  year  hovered  over  the  polit- 
ical horizon,  have  grown  less  dense.  We  have  been 
favored  as  a  nation,  and  can  set  down  the  year  in 
the  calendar  of  our  national  progress  as  a  white 
year. 

To  how  many  of  us  as  individuals  has  the  year 
which  has  just  closed  been  a  year  of  prosperity  and 
happiness  ?  The  record  of  many  is  undoubtedly 
bright  with  scenes  of  joy  and  prosperity : 


HAPPY   NEW   YEAR.  247 

"  But  earthly  hope,  how  bright  soe'er, 

Still  fluctuates  o'er  this  changing  scene, 
As  false  and  fleeting  as  'tis  fair." 

The  record  of  others  is  dark  with  unhappiness  — 
with  destitution  —  with  bereavement  —  with  misery 
unutterable.  Happiness  may  predominate  in  the 
case  of  most  of  us,  but  as  the  ivy  twines  around  the 
oak,  so  do  misery  and  misfortune  encompass  the 
happiness  of  man.  Let  those  to  whom  the  year 
has  been  a  white  year,  be  doubly  thankful  to  a 
kind  Providence ;  for  many  of  their  fellows  who 
entered  upon  the  old  year  with  as  high  hopes,  and 
with  prospects  as  bright  and  joyous,  would  gladly 
drink  of  a  Lethean  stream  to  bring  oblivion  for  the 
deeds  and  events  of  the  year  which  has  closed. 

The  sweetest  of  American  poets,  whose  words  of 
cheer  and  hope  have  carried  comfort  to  many  a 
troubled  heart,  in  his  "  Psalm  of  Life,"  has  advised 
us  to 

"  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead." 

The  advice  is  good,  though  we  may  well  he«d 
the  further  monition  to 

"  Trust  no  future,  howe'er  pleasant," 

but 

"  Act  —  act  in  the  living  present, 
Heart  within  and  God  o'erhead." 


248  HAPPY   NEW   YEAR. 

The  present  is  ours,  but  who  can  count  upon 
the  future  ?  Another  New  Year's  day,  and  many 
of  us  will  have  passed  from  this  limited  stage  of  ex- 
istence. What  an  incentive  is  there  in  this  reflec- 
tion, which  must  force  itself  upon  the  mind  at  this 
season,  to  right  views  of  duty,  and  to  the  proper 
fulfilment  of  the  obligations  which  we  owe  to  our- 
selves, to  our  friends,  to  the  community,  and,  above 
all,  to  the  great  Ruler  of  the  universe.  While  we 
are  planning  and  forming  new  resolutions  for  the 
future,  may  we  all  keep  in  mind  the  fact  that  the 
present  is  all  that  is  really  ours  to  improve.  The 
pendulum  of  the  clock,  as  it  swings  backward  and 
forward,  is  constantly  ticking  out  the  minutes  of  our 
future,  and  as  the  bard  of  Avon  has  said : 

"  What's  past  and  what's  to  come,  is  strewed  with  husks, 
The  formless  ruin  of  oblivion." 

That  the  new  year  will  be  a  happy  one  to  our 
readers  is  our  heartfelt  wish.  May  prosperity  at- 
tend their  undertakings,  and  abundance  bless  their 
boards.  When  the  record  of  the  year  is  closed, 
may  it  have  many  delightful  pages.  May  it  be 
fragrant  with  good  actions,  and  be  gilded  by  the 
memory  'of  many  happy  hours. 

THE   END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


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m*.°^  H  REGI°NAL  LIBRARY  FACII 

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